Parody of virtue
by Aischenna
Summary: Hermione was bitten by a werewolf during the war - so she kept it in secret. But now, she decided to launch a research programme to rid the world off of lycanthrophy; and her partner in crime turns out to be Draco Malfoy. Watch them as they try their best while neck-deep in international politics, assassination attempts and secrets... HIATUS
1. Prologue

_Hello everyone!_

 _First of all, Happy New Year!_

 _Then: are you ready for a crazy ride and a Werewolf!Hermione? Also, some trigger-warning beforehand: there will be blood (well, is), injuries, gruesome experiences and ocassionally torn body parts. If you can't coope with things like this, please don't even read this chapter! I'm not humouring you when I signed_ _it as M rated! (Good thing this is just a story, otherwise, I would just land myself in jail)_

 _Although, if you liked my other story, **A tiny bit broken** , you will like this one, too (hopefully). It's no suprise: Dramione story - angsty spiced with love and drama. Or that's the plan - but you can never know what's gonna pop up in the plot all so sudden._

 _Have fun!_

* * *

She hated the smell of smoke. It was making her queasy.

Hermione ran faster in the shady woods that towered well above her, their tops ablaze and torching her path fast forward. She tried hard not to think about the fact that the smell of blood was coming from her shoulder and what the saliva of werewolves could cause to her body.

She felt small, desperate and scared all at the same time, but she continued on running and running, because there was no plan B. She need not to be captured and thus, ending the war in a pitiful defeat, even before the real catastrophe would fall on them.

Hell, she didn't even know how she managed to get away. Her brain didn't register the imagines or the memories. She was panicking with the enormous beast all over her, dangerously snapping jaws and troublesome claws ready to injure. It might have been a greatly timed kick or a nail landing in the beast's eyes, she just felt the weight disappear for a moment and she shot out, not even caring about her bleeding injury or the wildfire spreading around them as the flying ash scratched her wind pipe raw.

She knew the blood can leave a trace – so she covered it with her thick coat, holding it there while her feet moved forward.

Her sight blurred from the tears that collected at edge of her eyes as she continued on, the big trees seemingly remained the same, old and leafless, so high up towards the sky and seemingly shielding her, even though she knew she had next to no chance to escape from Greyback's pack. And entire pack of werewolves! She could hear their cries with the howling wind, but she didn't from which direction anymore. She just saw red from the blood and from the fire raging on behind her.

Merlin, how was she that big of an idiot! And back in Hogwarts they thought she was genius just because she had exceptional memory and she could use her abilities.

She mused and panted heavily simultaneously, as she tried not to focus on her body's aching and the change in her temperature – she was sure that the sudden raise that held back the frost in the air was not entirely because of her early exercise or the fire's heat surrounding her. She had a mild fever as either her blood accepted the werewolf genes or aforementioned genes slowly started killing her from the inside – there was no way to determine how her body would react just now.

Even though the process was quickened thanks to the blood that surged through her system with exceptional speed, it was essential that she continued. Her head felt like it was swimming from the blood loss but the adrenalin kept moving her feet. Hermione felt rolls of perspiration sticking her clothes to her skin, the dirty and mud tangling in her unruly hair while her imagination rushed and tricked her mind into believing in things that were not there anymore.

She had no other chance to escape, but this. She needed to go as far as she could.

* * *

Even after years, they didn't speak about the monsters of the war. Those things were conveniently swept under the rug – they didn't speak about what happened with Ron in the Malfoy Manor, what happened to Harry in the Forbidden Forest or what happened to Hermione while they were ambushed by an entire pack of werewolves.

Ron had been tortured and lost his left arm due to an infection, Harry died once more and Hermione was a werewolf – these were the secrets that everyone knew in their close circle of friends, but was so inconvenient of topic, that it never came up during the lazy Sunday brunches in the Burrow.

The Weasleys were nice people – they never blamed them for not sharing these stories, not even when little Victoire or Teddy asked why Ron had only one arm, why Harry never went to commemorations or why auntie Hermione ate her steak mostly raw.

It was entirely not the business of innocent ears even though the kids were no fools. Teddy was intelligent enough to not nag anymore after Adromeda shared the story of his brave parents with him. He may not have understood the meaning of war, the stress and the scars it left, but he knew enough to not pry anymore.

However, Victoire was the ever gossip-hungry buzzing bee – much like her own mother – with her curly, golden crown of hair and chirpy voice. She was unstoppable and curious by nature so she continued on with sticking her nose where she shouldn't and when she uncovered the story of uncle Ron's torture, she didn't sleep for two weeks to the chagrin of her parents. She kept dreaming about the noseless, red-eyed Voldemort creeping under her bed and ready to steal her plushies.

After that, the adults prohibited the Golden Trio to tell stories.

Harry didn't mind that at all, he had enough of the traumas during his childhood that he was glad to leave the past in the past, and Ron was happy to be spared from the memories of that place, even though he had his daily reminder when he woke up and saw himself in the mirror. But thankfully, he remembered nothing of the torture – just his arrival at the Manor, dragged there by Greyback himself, and about Dobby as he rescued Ron from the guaranteed death that awaited him in his cold cell.

They got it easier – Hermione remembered everything. She could recall the searing pain as she poured her melted jewellery on her wound so that the silver could erase the werewolf bacteria – she passed out from the pain. She remembered the as every cell in her body screamed in agony after her first transformation with her muscles molding and her bones cracking and re-arranging themselves of a wolf's.

For Hermione – it was terrible as the wolf used her skin as a shell, kept eating her away from the insides. She couldn't look into her own eyes in the mirror anymore. She saw her perfect shape, the nice curve of her hips and her breasts, the way her hair fell on her shoulders in wavy curls, the fake smile on her balmy lips, but her gaze never met with her eyes.

Not since her first night as a wolf.

The memory was always in her thoughts, vivid and colourful when she woke up that day – bare and humble, in the middle of the frozen forest floor with teeth clattering and her skin bruised, the snow's icy touch making her whimper. Before that night, she kept hoping that she was on time when she poured melted silver over the werewolf bite, that she could stop the inescapable and be done with the hellish nightmare that hadn't even truly started yet for her.

But now, it was worse than ever. She could feel the frost biting in her exposed skin with her sensitivity enhanced, it caused her real pain. Her toes, fingers and lips got bluer and bluer by every passing moment and she felt like she can't stand up, her body was worn out and used. Even through the veil of tears, she saw the destruction she had caused – in the mere of a single night, she hunted down three rabbits, ate a bird and killed a little child, destroying the corpse with animalistic rage. The boy's body was in pieces – she couldn't even see both legs in her surrounding.

She saw red tainted snow everywhere, felt the blood dry on her lips and she could smell the odor of fresh meat in the air, the chunks of torn muscles and the head of the young child scattered in front of her legs, with eyes opened in terror staring back at her.

Her sobs echoed in the forest that entire day.

* * *

She powdered her face and actually did a little make up just to look more professional a bit more eligible. It was all for the sake of doing something good to the world – she wouldn't be humiliated because of her looks, those times were long over.

Hermione was never one hundred percent sure of her doings, but she always managed to turn the events to her advantage… well, almost always. With her, being a werewolf, even though she was tempted to give up at the beginning, she now stood proud and invincible. She was determined to erase lycanthropy from existence.

She smacked her lips to evenly spread the nude lipstick and nodded to her reflection. Even if she still couldn't look into her own eyes in the mirror, she was confident enough to go forward and start her new project.

When she was in Hogwarts, she didn't entertain the thought of being a researcher of the wizarding world, just because that was a job for talented pureblooded who had enough money to invest. But after becoming werewolf – and with that, came the self-doubts and helplessness hand in hand – she decided to use that and turn it around to view that very fact in a different angle. After getting her own office in the Ministry with a well-equipped laboratory, working on three to eighty projects simultaneously, she could say she was content – and now, she was ready to take the first steps. She was so sure of herself right now!

But if she really looked deep into herself, she truly wasn't. Her main project was always put off, because of the lack of funds and now she was afraid to ask for the money. No one thought it was a good idea beside fellow werewolves and the Ministry didn't even give her a knut for this project. When she decided to bow her head and ask Harry for support, he blurted out that Ginny was expecting, so she left out that itty-bitty request she wanted to make from their weekly conversations in between congratulations.

So she now decided to take the first step to get started: a hopefully successful interview and she could get the money that would cover everything and soon, she could be out of the werewolf registry and help several other people who turned monsters at every full moon.

 _Thank you, Merlot_ – she hummed to herself. If she hadn't got drunk two weeks prior, she would have never sent the letter, asking for an interview.

With one final, firm nod to herself, she turned out of her bathroom, her red high-heels clicking on the parquet with confidence and dedication. In front of her fireplace she reached for the floo powder and ignoring her trembling fingers while praying to Merlin and all the gods out there, she cried out, "Malfoy Manor!"

* * *

 _So now: what do you REALLY think or expect?_


	2. Wolves have pristine teeth

**Chapter I:** **Wolves have pristine teeth**

 _(About gains, lost fingers and a coward botanist)_

* * *

Sometimes she really wished for the fur that covered her body when in wolf form.

The air was cooler than what she expected in the Malfoy Manor, the big building's detailed arches seemed to be frozen in time in cool bone colour and Hermione hated that she found it beautiful. It gave off a vibes of a carefully structured crypt, yet taking her breath away from its stiff elegance. _What was she thinking?_ – she berated herself – _This is the place where Ron was tortured!_

After endless hallways and ballrooms and even more staircases was only she stopped by the cautious house elf who was ordered to welcome and carter her through the Malfoy's ancient home, only for him to nod towards the door waiting to be opened.

The elf too afraid to look her in the eyes, stood at her side, never showing her his back. After all, magical creatures recognised each other easily and werewolves – even in human form – weren't among the most trustworthy species.

Hermione sighed deeply, kind of used to this treatment – everyone was tiptoeing around her since she had growled at Harry during one of their usual brunches for trying to take a bite from her bruschette. She barred her teeth and only the numbing sound of Harry's fork hitting the table snapped her out of her animalistic display of force. That was also the time when the Weasleys realized she really was a beast with instincts and inhuman strength, still unstable, dropped in the middle of this new state all during a raging war. She was nothing like Lupin, she wasn't kind or controlled at all. She wasn't a werewolf-turned-puppy like Lupin was.

With a shake of her head to chase away those troubling thoughts, she knocked on the robust oak door and when hearing the permission for entry, she stepped into the room, not even bothering to thank the little elf for his help.

"What the fuck?!" was the first sentence that left her mouth in the middle of a serious negotiation about funds for her research. Great.

The metal was deeply embedded in the door frame just an inch away from her face. Even without intent, her mind switched to a threatened animal's and a low growl filled her lungs – she was hardly able to hold it back as her chocolate-turned-amber eyes met with those silver, mischievously glinting ones.

"Nice start Granger," she heard the smug voice of her former classmate and Hermione froze, perturbed to find Draco Malfoy in his father's boss chair, smirking at her with absolutely no care to the world, no doubt amused by her new, colourful vocabulary, "Never expected of you to take on the Weasley idioms."

She felt her nails and teeth lengthen and she needed to lean to the injured doorframe to catch her breath, lest she would lunge at Malfoy. Her heart was beating within her ribcage with panic, like a frightened hummingbird and her wolf was at uproar at the lingering smell of threats and cigar.

"Easy Granger, easy," Malfoy cooed from the safety of his leather chair, misunderstanding her reaction, but still, as if he was talking to a bloodhound, demeaning and derogative, even though he hadn't mistook much. "There was simply no chance of hitting you – believe me, I've been practising with the peacocks. They only die when I want them to," he shrugged as if the value of life was a toy of his every-days.

It made Hermione grind her teeth to each other as she desperately tried to concentrate on the money she could use up for save mythical creatures. If she was clever with her words, she could achieve her means and that was enough of motivation not to murder Malfoy on the very spot.

With a deep sigh, Hermione opened her now humanly eyes and with a simple move, pulled the metals out of the doorframe. It seemed they would need to redo the entire frame; it fractured the rich wood and left an ugly mark on it, "Shurikens?" she asked with a pulled up brow, throwing the thing straight back at Malfoy.

He just smugly smiled and stopped the flying ninja equipment with his wand, his mouth unmoving. Non-verbal spelling – so Malfoy wasn't that talentless after all, Hermione mused, watching her perfectly aimed shot freeze, floating in midair. This new skill portrayed his growth and was a flamboyant way of showing his dominance – same with throwing the shurikens.

It seemed her faked fright was not enough of satisfaction to his liking.

"Parkinson gave me those after her trip to Japan. She told me I needed a hobby," he chatted idly and stood up, gesturing her to step inside further and Hermione did, but not before taking a breath, subtly smelling the air. She could feel the rich wood, the smoke, the whiskey and the metal's clashing scent wafting in and out, could hear Malfoy's calmly beating heart, not aware of the fact that he was faced with a mythical creature, a creature that he oh-so-feared when they were back in Hogwarts.

 _The irony of the fate_ – she mused with a forceful smile, praying that her teeth looked now more like of a human's than of a predator's.

"Though I'm sure she never expected me to actually start using them. I'm getting better, by the way," Draco added cockily, expertly chatting away the time to relax the both of them. He was an exceptional conversationalist that she could admit – but that didn't mean he had succeeded in his goal.

But Hermione dutifully nodded along, knowing full well how rich pureblooded folk functioned with the mudbloods, thinking they were not even worthy of being the dirt on their shoes. She watched with hawk-like eyes as he looked through thousands and thousands of documents to get her proposal in his firm, pale hands, while chatting about meaningless things, namely how he usually used the white peacocks as targets from his balcony when they woke him up in the morning. And about the weather, they were British, after all.

The plastered smile was getting harder and harder to uphold.

She didn't utter a word until Malfoy had asked.

"You have an interesting idea rolling in your head Granger, that, I must admit," he tutted, maintaining eye-contact with her, "But I am too curious not to ask: why? Why this one? Why the urgent need of funds? Why are you asking the Malfoys? Forgive me," he spit the words with a cruel smile of irony as he sing-songed his sentences, "But it seems pretty inconsequential, asking this much of galleons from a family you hated ever since you entered our world."

"Let's be clear on this matter, shall we?" Hermione asked with the fakest of all the smiles she had up her sleeves. "Your entire line of royal ass wizarding family was my last resort with the Minsitry bitching about funds and thinking brooms are more important than the lives of people – the ones who were infected," she seethed through her pristine teeth, her fingers tangling in the hem of her black skirt to restrain herself. She wanted to destroy something, badly, just out of spite.

Maybe targeting those dumb birds wasn't that idiotic of stress release after all, hmm?

"Beside all that," she started with more posture and calmer voice, more like a temptress, ready for capturing her enemy in the net of her carefully laid trap, "Wouldn't it look good to the media, Malfoy? Ms Heroine and Malfoy money introduces the cure for lycanthropy?" It was like holding out a carrot to a starved horse, the glints of greediness seemed to ignite in Malfoy's peculiar irises and suddenly, a wolfish smirk curled up his lips.

But still, he was too stubborn to jump on the bait just yet, "That's all you got to offer? A headline that people would probably forget within a week – excuse me Granger, but that doesn't worth me anything. I could make up headlines myself, thank you very much," he waved with his right hand dismissively, the weighty ring glinting on his long fingers. "Besides," he continued haughtily, "I'm not even sure if it's even resourceful to attempt such a thing. From where could you get the _lab_ _rats_ or how could you even determine and rule out the ingredients – you have no access to any of the registries and samples or am I misconceiving?"

Though Hermione felt the scent of the bluff linger in the air, she leaned back against her chair, relaxed and arms crossed over her chest with a cocky smile on her lips, ignoring all of his questions, "You can goad me Malfoy all you want but it's your father I need to make a good impression on, not you. I'd be glad if I could speak with him instead of you not waste any more of both of our time."

There was so much more hidden in that single sentence; she right out told Malfoy _he hadn't the power to judge or the authority to say yes or no to her request, he hadn't the control_ and Hermione knew he understood the real meaning of her words, from the way he tensed, the way his expressive eyes glinted or the way he held back a breath, seemingly counting to ten.

Now, that moment, she felt like a victor, invincible in this fucked up game of powers and wits.

But then, a twisted smile curled Malfoy's lips up and Hermione could say bye-bye to the funds she oh-so-desperately needed. She felt herself get paler as he suddenly spoke up with a voice so controlled that made chill run up and down on the back of a not so harmless werewolf. Now, that was something – Hermione decided, not letting go of his icy gaze.

"You may think I have nothing I can give; but you're _so, so_ wrong Granger," he answered so sweetly that Hermione was surprised his teeth hadn't rotted away at that very moment, "My father gave me full authority, so that means I'm the one who decides the fate of your little project. He has more pressing matters to attend to in Russia anyway, – or in other words, he does not have the mind to pay attention to you."

Even though she tried to pretend she wasn't nervous, she gulped and that was enough of sign for Malfoy to assure himself of his power. She looked away, tasting a bitter taste in her mouth. The predator became dependant on her food – if her brain wasn't overworking itself with all the possible outcomes or other approaches to achieve her end, she would have snorted in amusement.

"So, as I am the one for whom you need to make a good impression on, I suggest you start talking about your result and what you can offer in exchange for the money…? Or the details of your little research, perhaps?"

His grey eyes were glinting in acidic ridicule, intoxicated by all the power he held in his hands while Hermione forced back her urge of growling like a trapped animal as she considered the offer – _was she ready for selling herself?_ She asked herself, her eyes firmly set on the grandfather clock in the corner. _Was she ready to confess her secret to her hated enemy?_

She felt dirty to the core because she knew that the money came from frauds, manslaughter or from Ministry support and been stored in vaults, illegally. But the Malfoy name held authority between magical folks so no one bothered to investigate or question their money.

So was she ready for that?

She bit in the inside of her cheek, the irony taste of blood making her teeth lengthen. The full moon was close – so she needed to be even more careful. If he got the wind of her little secret just yet, it would be over.

Because of that, Hermione decided to give in – it wasn't just about her secrets, it was the fact that influenced the lives of thousands all over the world. With gritting teeth, she squeezed out, her eyes snapping to his, "Thanks to Greyback, there are more werewolves than ever in Britain, several people in bad state of minds, innocents turned murderers and humans turned animals. I need to help them, Malfoy! More infected people means more wolves and more victims can result in an epidemic. It's bad – and it's not only between wizarding folks, there are more and more muggles on this train than anyone bothered to count…"

Then came the numbers, the sheer statistics and surveys that were handled cautiously, in a black folder under the Department of Mysteries where no one dared to go. Well, minus Hermione who snuck in dire need of information of any kind.

Just like that, it was a secret of her she was not yet ready to confess to anyone, especially not to incorrigible, rude and despicable Draco Malfoy.

But her tirade on importance did its job: for the first time, it seemed, Malfoy decided to take the matter at hand seriously; he nodded along, his expressive eyes shining with understanding, without mockery. It was a big step in itself, and Hermione really did appreciate it when he didn't add any scalding comment to the only question he shot at her during the negotiation, "How much do you need?"

She let the tiniest of smiles unfurl on her lips as she started with a different kind of numbers.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy hated cold. He hated snow and wind and blizzards – he hated all cold and he hated Russia even more. Not to get him started on Siberia, oh how he hated those lands!

With a scowl firmly placed on his face, he walked into a slightly warmer house. It was simple, furnished puritanical, well-hidden in the middle of Moscow. The client himself had asked to meet him here, and it was an offer Lucius couldn't be left out of, even though he hated international travel, he hated cold and all above, he hated Russia. And Siberia – where his next journey would take him for sure.

He never showed how unsure of himself he actually was when no one rushed to greet him with deep bows. Lucius was annoyingly aware of the stillness of the house, the entire room seemingly frozen in time.

So he scoffed and with the lack of any presence in the little house. He looked around surreptitiously; the stillness of the white curtains and striped tablecloth and horrendous cushions gave of the vibes of terrible taste. With a last scowl, he turned on his heels to head back outside, even though he hated being outside. The rush of the Russians was better than eerie silence – the kind of silence when you could even hear a needle drop on the floor.

"Where are you going?" asked a voice with thick accent – the kind of accent that made Lucius shiver in disgust. "We haven't even started yet."

So with eyes blazing, ready to spite the person with the ridiculous accent, Lucius turned back to face a tall, dark man with robes touching the parquet and the smile of a predator, lengthened teeth and tensed jaws – as if the lad was ready to attack any second Lucius made a wrong move.

But he wasn't so simply outplayed, "Then you better tell what you need," he politely suggested, refused to be intimidated and with a blonde brow cocked, he added, "Was it really necessary to sharpen your teeth?" It was a cheap ploy to pull, and he demeaned all who believed _this_ to be intimidating.

The lad seemed to be amused by his bold approach and careless attitude, his smile widened into a right out grin: he looked dangerous but not invincible. Nothing a quick curse couldn't cure – Lucius judged.

"How do you know I'm not… one of the animals?" he shot him his own question, leaning to the doorframe, dirty and made from cheap wood.

"Wolves have pristine teeth, no matter what. And excuse me sir, but those," and with that, Lucius swiftly lifted his crane to jab toward the conceited boy that thought he had Lucius Malfoy in his hand, "are not even close to white."

The lad nodded along, not even baited by the taunt, though Lucius believed it was more of the lack of understanding than him being impassive. And they sent that boy for a negotiation of this calibre? _Amateurs_ – Lucius snorted, not even caring if the dark lad had heard it or not.

"I better warn you to speed up, I haven't the time to stand here all day," Lucius said in the end, bored, tired and so annoyed by the cold that seemed to chill him to the bones. The temperature was below zero even in this fucking house!

"Then come along, Mr Malfoy," the lad suggested with a bold wave of his left hand, inviting Lucius Malfoy further into a plebeian house that was no match to his eloquence. "Be our guest," he said, turning his back to the British wizard.

The British wizard froze in mid-step.

"Our?" Lucius asked and before he could have continued on asking, wires came out of the door frame effectively trapping him, tearing the expensive material of his coat, the furred edges shrieking in dismay and Lucius' mouth was nothing but a hard, straight line, demonstrating his utter annoyance and angst. "What do you want?" Lucius hissed through the tight lock of his jaw, hating fucking Russia even more.

The lad stopped in front of Lucius, just out of reach and kept idly smiling at the suffering wizard, "Now you just have to listen," were his last words before he turned to ash, leaving only crumpled, dark clothes on the ground.

Lucius, even though he hadn't showed, he cringed in the insides, "An inferi?" he asked himself, trying not to shake too visibly. He kept biting in the inside of his cheek, his cloud coloured eyes snapping from one side to the other in desperate search of someone, anyone.

Though he didn't know which was better – left alone or have someone at his throat for some ridiculous reasons.

"Mr Malfoy," Lucius gulped loudly, trying to locate the voice, but it sounded from every possible direction, from behind, underneath, from the ceiling from the street… it was maddening and Lucius started yet again tasting fear – the kind of fear he was familiar with when under employment of the Dark Lord. "We need something only you can give us."

"What?" he dared to ask flippantly, trying to figure out if it was a voice record or a real person speaking from behind the walls.

"Not so fast, mister," came the demeaning voice again, and Lucius shivered, more than aware of the possibility what an errant spell could cause to him if he made a wrong move and the speaker fired something nasty in his way, without protection, without the chance to fight.

"I'm aware you need to head to Siberia in two hours, but until then, we have time for negotiations," the voice idly suggested while the wires squeezed harder against his ripping coat, and Lucius was painfully aware of the one which was pressing against his throat. "Let's play."

And Lucius wanted to scream, feeling his pinky ripped off of his left hand. He saw it fall to the dirty parquet and the shock panged in his head. He really did just lose a finger, hadn't he?

The blood was another thing – it kept flowing and flowing, and he was mesmerized by the tiny tears the bloody chunk of meat cried – it was so red and he kept compare it to Narcissa's nails or the colour of the apple Draco favoured so much.

He screamed when his index finger from his right hand fell too, shock making his blonde head swim and the words coming from the voice were hardly tangible for him.

"What do you want?" he whined with tears rolling down on his high cheek-bones and fair skin. "Tell me and I give," he pleaded with continued hissing, ready to give into the enticing urge to fainting. He had already started seeing spots, his brain in a gamble, his head ready to explode to see his fingers laying on the hard, dirty floor, the signet ring gleaming up at him as if mocking him in his hopeless situation.

It was crazy to be intimidated by a finger alone. But yet, the finger was most certainly free, meanwhile, Lucius most certainly wasn't.

He was completely at the mercy of that strange voice and he hated it.

"Lands," came the voice, and Lucius gulped in fear.

That was pretty much the only thing he couldn't give.

* * *

Neville Longbottom hated himself.

He hated how powerless, how very coward and lame he truly was, only surrounded by his plants and ivies, running form all society and friendly interactions, turning the lock of Hogwarts behind his back and busying himself with teaching mischievous children, wondering when his preens' children will turn up at school and realize he had, in fact, wasted all his time.

He was weak – Neville decided, watching the crazed glint burn out from his mother's blueberry coloured eyes. The same eyes he had, with the same glassy gaze.

It was a heavy decision to end his parents' suffering. Frank and Alice had not remembered him at all, the once great minds and fighters of a terrifying war were reduced to blubbering idiots, only able to sometimes call out silly things like _food_ , _pee_ or _play_.

Neville hated this – he was so envious of his friends' families. The Weasleys, for example. They might not have had enough money to properly raise seven children, but somehow they managed and they lived happily, loved and together. Well, together until the war.

Also, he hated that war. Of course he wanted to help – he liked Harry, Hermione always helped him with homework, whenever he asked and Ron sometimes played chess with him, besides, Luna liked him in her extraordinary way and Ginny was a good person to talk to. But after Luna's death he kind of… forgot to attend any of their little meet-ups and of course, he was always invited to the Weasley Brunches, but he never took upon that offer.

He was all alone in the last five years.

If it wasn't for McGonagall's offer, Neville wouldn't have known what to do – he had no goal in life, no will to continue and had not even a fucking idea how to figure himself out. He didn't know who he was, he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, and sometimes, he assumed, he should have died with Luna. His life was _pointless_.

That would have been for the better – he decided, twirling his fingers in the dark, long ringlets of his mother's, comparing it to his own. _The same colour, nearly the same length_ – Neville analyzed and nodded approvingly – only his was straight and in a low pony-tail, instead of the uncontrolled mess of locks, that fell every direction of the compass rose on the pillow.

Alice looked peaceful, truly. She didn't look beautiful or dignified in her death, she really didn't – Neville thought, rolling an empty vial in between his fingers, his gaze not leaving his mother's freckled cheeks.

She must have been charming, even dazzling in her own time.

Neville nodded approvingly – _she must have!_

"I'm sorry mother, father," he muttered – as he supposed – his last words to his already dead parents, the poison taking its effect only after two minutes, and yes, it fucking hurt to watch it, to be there and to know he was the one who did this to his parents, but at least it wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange or her equally as unhinged husband. "I need to go, before they got a wind what I did," he continued with a sad smile, asking for their forgiveness. He was hardly able to keep himself seated on his chair, his entire body shaking with the efforts to keep himself from fainting.

Neville was weak, he was powerless and absolutely selfish, an eccentric little botanist, hating his life and he was perfectly aware of all these facts. He was not ready to tell the healers to give his parents the lethal poison. He was afraid to see their reaction, their opposition or the pity in their eyes.

He was a war hero, and still, whom he wanted to save the most, were all dead.

His Grandmother. Luna. And now, even his parents.

Though he wasn't sure their insanity could have been called life.

Yes – Neville decided with firm nod – they were long dead. They were long dead. He just helped them to the _Otherside_.

He smiled to himself, slowly rising up from the uncomfortable wooden chair, rolling his shoulders and his hands playing with the vial that was once filled up with cyanide in high concentration. He smiled to himself – at least it was painless.

It didn't hurt them, and he could easily pretend they are just _sleeping_. And they will keep sleeping in their coffin too – yes, Neville decided to stand by that lie. It was nothing to be afraid of. After all, they were just sleeping.

With a casual smile to himself and waved goodbye to his sleeping parents, "Hope you have sweet dreams."


	3. Aconitum lycoctonum

**Chapter II: Aconitum lycoctonum**

 _(About the past, murky teas and a whore)_

* * *

Being a werewolf made her unsure of herself. To put it simply, she was terrified of herself. The sudden strength she now possessed – she could throw Harry and Ron from the middle of the room to the walls with a flick of her wrist – was scary. And their bodies would leave _cracks_ on the wall. _Cracks._

It was like rediscovering herself yet again – just like when she found out she was a witch. It compared to reliving her childhood eerily; when she thought she was a freak for doing things no one other could. That time, she could change her grades on her tests when she believed it was not good enough.

When she was eleven, at least, she had help. Fellow witches, like McGonagall, explaining the deals and the subjects and about school, than later, she had Ginny who gave her books of the proper behaviour of a witch.

Being a werewolf was harder – Lupin was long gone and Charlie, what with working with dragons, knew the basics only. And she was unwilling to pay a visit to Greyback. Even without the dementors, Azkaban was bad enough in itself.

Now, with what she thought was a casual hold over a glass, turned out to be strong enough to break aforementioned glass apart. It cut in her skin and let her blood flow freely, but she hardly felt the pain and the injury healed in a matter of minutes. But the visual was off-putting enough for freshly-transformed werewolf. At first she thought she went bonkers. It wasn't normal to see your own skin mend by itself, cell by cell. To not feel a cut so deep that half of the glass was under her skin, sunk in her rosy meat… She wanted to scream but her throat was simply too dry and her mind too shocked to do so.

And that was the time when she realized: she was scared of herself.

Well, left without a teacher it was all on Hermione to figure out how to cope with the new genes in her system. She locked herself in the library in the old Black residence, cried herself to sleep over her precious books and entirely buried herself in her studies. There was no explanation that would have satisfied her logical mind, there was no book written for scientific facts. All she found were legends and myths.

For the first time in years, Hermione was truly lost.

That time, just a few weeks after the war, no one knew.

She didn't let anyone know.

She screamed at Harry from behind a locked door, she broke and repaired things when no one was home and she tried to convince Ron that everything was OK. She really tried to tell him that they were not good together, never were. They constantly had screaming matches, he tried to get closer, make the walls crumble around her and fix everything with a casual wave of his wand when all Hermione needed was _space_. It felt suffocating.

But Ron was persistent. He decided with his stubbornness that they are going to go out together. So after enough sorrow and crying and breaking things, Hermione decided to go with the flow. It was better than wallowing in self-pity, she decided.

She couldn't remember when she last stepped out of the library, but for once, she felt grateful. The sun felt warm and calming, the fresh air filled up her lungs and she could smell the autumn in the winds and saw the various colours up on the trees sharper. Everything was heightened. _Everything_.

Then, Ron smiled, "Look at it! I haven't seen your happy-face in a while. I was afraid you'll go all McGonagall from now on," he teased and squeezed her hand. Hermione smiled back, but didn't dare repeat his actions. She would have crushed his bones to ashes, she knew.

So they continued dating – the Prophet and the Witch Weekly went mad whenever they attended a public event or just had a nice stroll up on Diagon Alley. The meaningful glances Ron shot towards her soon lost their value and crowd was all around them when they had an outing.

Soon, even if she were outside, it became suffocating too.

Hermione hated hiding everything, cleaning all the mess she caused with her superior strength, the dumb excuses whenever it was full moon and on the top, she hated Ron's smell. It was full of mint and smelly socks and his stench was worst whenever he was sweating – meaning every time he was around her. She made him nervous and jittery and that meant sweaty palms and armpits too. One time, she ended up vomiting because of it.

And Mrs. Weasley thought it was the bun in the oven! Hah, if she had known!

Then after three months, Ron wanted to move in with her. For four months, they slept in the same bed, did everything together and it was maddening. Hermione was snappy, always on the edge and ready to start clawing her own eyes out. Or her nose for that matter, Ron's smell had infected the whole flat and Hermione couldn't even go into her living room without spraying Japanese Garden in every direction. It started to be ridiculous by the last weeks.

She knew their relationship was rearing its end. Ron snored really loudly, he sweat even in his sleep and he ate things that made her sensitive nose scrunch and her stomach queasy. Her very being was always protesting every time he wanted to give her some gifts. She didn't want to be bought, and the wolf within her was irritated by the idea of being a mere possession.

Then, came his nightmares – they were the worst.

Ron still didn't remember the time he spent in Malfoy Manor, when he lost his left hand, but it seemed his unconscious mind never did abandon those memories. In his dreams, he relived everything. Every night. He woke up screaming and he sometimes kicked and punched blindly in the night and he cried and it emotionally damaged both of them to be dragged into caring about each other.

When their minor secrets were discovered by the other party, it felt uncomfortable. Hermione knew that neither of them were perfect – beside her furry problem, she constantly chewed on her lip, was a workaholic and she couldn't put together a family dinner to save her life. Just like him, she had her own flaws.

Day by day, it was getting more and more taxing to care about each other. Every night, promptly at 3:28, Ron would wake up. Always screaming, always a sweaty mess and he always kept apologizing and Hermione hated it, "I'm sorry 'Mione, I really am, I need time to cope, I just need _time_."

So every time, Hermione kept saying that it would be okay, and she would always be there, even though she too knew, they were nothing but cheap lies. She hugged Ron despite having a right out migraine from his stench and his skin felt sticky and she hated touching it.

But she was there whenever needed. Because she was expected to do so.

So Hermione was there for him, she needed to be there for him; for him to be there for her tomorrow morning. To keep on living and pretending loving each other. Just because they both needed an anchor and they both were too vulnerable to find someone else.

And one day before the next full moon in August, Hermione blurted her secret out. The one she kept under thousands of locks, the one she didn't want to share with anyone, like ever. But she told him, because she was brave and she had had enough and she just needed to say it out loud.

She kept hoping he would be there for her, just like all the times when she was there for him during the nights. But he wasn't.

Now, Ron was scared – more afraid of her than of her wolf. It ended in a screaming match, with blaming the other party and being petty and with her breaking her own fucking china plates to prove her point and Ron running out on her and calling her a liar. He accused her of not trusting in him enough and she screamed back, ' _that's why I didn't trust you'_ right before Ron turned his back on her.

To put it simply, it exploded back in his face. Besides, the wolf within her hummed contentedly while she let her rage flair and her superior strength free and she, for once, was glad she could punch better than any man. She ended up breaking three of Ron's ribs with a simple shove ( _and break his nose without any effort, really_ ) and man, was she proud of that!

"You're a hypocrite," he whispered with seething fire in his voice and Hermione scowled back, her eyes glinting with amber and uncontrollable rage. She popped her knuckles and offered flippantly as if the love between them had never even existed.

"I could break a few more of your bones. You still have 203 unharmed."

Maybe there really was no love for them.

So Ron left with the Floo and Hermione went out for a run in the rain in the middle of the night, competing with the wind and the awaiting storm and letting the rain shower her body, knowing there was no way she could get herself sick. Her immune system was far too developed for that.

After two days, the entire Weasley family knew. So did Harry – and he was the only one who came to see her.

"It was pretty rough, huh?" was the first thing he said when seeing her in her living room, sitting side by side with scattered pieces of broken furniture and china. His voice was airy and Hermione didn't even bother to look up from her book. It was about aconitum lycoctonum. The juice of this plant was poisonous to mankind, but it was just right to tamper with werewolf genes. She had a theory and she needed to prove it.

The screws in her head turned as she read. She idly hummed along the lines and nodded occasionally. She frantically searched for a cure, to stop this madness and _get her life back_.

The wolf inside her head growled and Harry came closer, offering some neatly wrapped dark chocolate bonbons – the only somewhat sweet thing she ate, courtesy to the dentist parents. She took it and buried herself in the text even deeper.

"You know it's not right?" Harry tried again, nudging her with his elbow and Hermione, even unconsciously, snorted at him. It was deep and animalistic, more like a growl than an actual snorting sound. And that's when it truly sank in with Harry and Hermione wanted to cry when seeing his olive green eyes widening in surprise.

He was just like Ron – scared of her.

But then he laughed and asked, "Aren't you like Sirius? He did the same, sometimes!"And months of frustration suddenly dissipated from her stomach as she joined in, abandoning her formal text and giving in the temptation. Laughing was refreshing in a way that sunshine wasn't and in a way that Ron could have never be. She let it overtake her and they laughed longer and longer, afraid of the moment slipping out of her claws.

Two weeks later, she was invited back to the Burrow. And just then did her friends realize how very wolfish she truly was.

* * *

Flicking the end of his cigarette on her book, Harry grinned down on her, the wrinkles around his olive eyes making him look older than his actual age, "Any progress so far? Was the tea any good?"

Hermione sighed and slammed her book shut, a migraine threatening to come thanks to the smell of that blasted rod Harry oh so much enjoyed. She couldn't help hating the smell of smoke – she scrunched up her face and ignited a candle. Japanese Garden – already so used to it, but it did tamper with her senses and that was good enough for her.

"Wandless magic, Hermione? I didn't expect less," Harry announced brashly – in his case, it must have been his ridiculously long office hours that tampered with his brain. After three months of being alone – well, after they broke up with Ginny – all he had was a canny werewolf and sweet Teddy Lupin.

Wow, the pair of them was really pathetic.

"You should give up on smoking," she chastised. It was more of a habit than an actual reprimand, "You know how Adromeda loathes the smell. She wouldn't let you in Teddy's ten feet proximity."

"That's why I'm just smoking whenever in here. You know, the middle of nowhere," he answered, sinking in the sea of pillows that occupied her outrageous, orange sofa. It was comfortable enough with the chaos of mismatched cushions over it, even though it might have hurt the eyes of a professional.

Harry didn't mind the blinding colours. He only needed to sit somewhere.

"So tell me Hermione. How have you been in the last week?"

Hermione smiled down on her book contentedly, "I had quite a breakthrough with _the_ research."

" _The_ research?" Harry asked, the cigarette smoking in between his bony fingers, suddenly forgotten. "The tea had some long-lasting effects?" He seemed genuinely interested in her progress and the small happiness in Hermione's ever-graying life. She was just as much a lone wolf as Harry was a hero, she remained isolated and while he protected the magical world with being head auror and signing meaningless documents.

Harry urged her, "Do tell!"

She reached for her mug, the liquid inside had a murky colour and the scent was enough to take away one's appetite, but the taste wasn't that bad. "Two weeks ago, I made a trip to Switzerland, where the aconitum lycoctonum originated a few hundred years ago. The trick is, I only need the plants with the white flowers," she confessed, feeling shameful that she needed a year to figure it out. Even with Neville's help, it did take some effort and with both being an adults with a time-consuming jobs didn't help matters either. "At first we thought that we needed the leaves, but I found a book on ancient Greek toxics and it revealed that we need the dried roots only.

"Now, there's a special way to brew the tea," Hermione announced, glad to see the shine of excitement in Harry's olive eyes. "We needed to get rid of the juice so the toxic doesn't numb my organs and there was a chance I could die if I just drank it what with my lungs slowing and getting less oxygen into my system. Turns out, what we really needed was inside the walls of the roots. It was hard and I needed especial control over _incendio_ not to have the plant burned to ashes." Harry nodded and started chewing on his lower lip, already expecting the end of the story.

"But?" he asked when Hermione didn't continue and the weight of the unsaid words started to settle in between the two of them. Her friend didn't look triumphant and it was enough to figure out that this solution wasn't really a solution at all.

"It's even more tedious than making the Wolfsbane potion, Harry. Not to mention, it's a lot more expensive, the kind of aconite we needed for this is rare to put it simply. I needed a lot of papers to approve the purchase," she confessed quietly, her spirits falling rapidly. "It's part of the reason I have been locked in here. I needed a month just to get all the permissions from the authorities, not to mention our Ministry bitching about it and taking me in for an interrogation… It was too much of a hassle for a few pots of tea. They nearly figured out what I am, and I cannot be put in that damned registry. And beside all that, my funds are nearing their end."

He took a sharp breath at that, his bony fingers unconsciously running through his hair with weighty concern.

"Why didn't you ask me for funds before?" he questioned, his eyes squinted by concern and full of his prying intentions.

Hermione stood up steadily, the Egyptian blanket sliding down on her body with her moves. She looked at the fireplace, her stance and voice unwavering even though she didn't really know how to express herself. She wanted to be gentle.

"I… That time, Ginny was expecting and… I thought you needed the money more. I couldn't risk you using it with a child and a wife to tend to and after that… I guess I just didn't want to ask you…" she confessed and from the overbearing silence, she knew she didn't manage with being gentle and sympathetic.

"Yeah, right."

She winced. Harry's answer was chopped and entirely too cold compared to his usual behaviour. It was without emotions and resulted in chills running up and down on Hermione's back.

"So, what did you do?" came the next question, surprising the werewolf. She looked over her shoulder, perplexed by the change of tone and the continued interrogation. She didn't expect him to pry any further.

Harry had both his hands in the pocket of his oversized robes – in the last few months, he did lose a lot of weight – and he had a deep scowl on his face. But it didn't change the fact that he was still interested and invested in the original subject of their conversation and was there for his friend.

He was that proudly standing column for Hermione. He was there every time for her to lean on, and in exchange, she was there when he needed time. In the last few months, Harry used her guest bedroom often, not being able to bear the silence of the former Black residence. He much preferred to spend his sleepless nights in her home, located in the middle of nowhere.

So, knowing she could tell him anything without him exploding with rage, without him leaving her for good and never coming back – not like Ron did –, Hermione blurted out, "I went to the Malfoys."

His reaction was simply too comical not to laugh at that.

"Pardon?"

Hermione laughed.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson hated bureaucracy.

It was full of swarming politicians showing off their power to each other and ridiculously constructed sweet-talks. But really, why was so hard for them to say a simple ' _fuck_ _you'_ instead of beating around the bush? Conversations bored Pansy to death. "You have power of passing a proposal? Pft, that's nothing compared to having control of the law legislations!"

Really, how much more ridiculous could this get?

With a subtle roll of her obsidian eyes, Pansy continued her former activity: going through the Minister's papers, personal letters and supposedly secret doings of their government. When reaching one of Hermione Granger's proposals, she snorted.

Oh heck, how Pansy hated the formal language! Who the fuck had the time to read through twenty-page-long essays about their dysfunctional society and the flaws it had? She never understood why all these buffoons needed to play that sick game with the cats and mice, like, constantly.

They were nothing more than idiots. With the Minister on the first place.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was an alcoholic and thought he was untouchable in his comfortable chair and with the title of the Minister on it. He was stressed, constantly working overtime and always bothered by the Warlock's foolishness. He wanted control, he wanted order and he had the power – but he destroyed himself in the mean time.

He liked Fire Whiskey, he loved Butterbeer and he loved Pansy Parkinson instead of choosing a proper wife. He liked her for her sass, for her intelligence and her skills in the bed.

It was too easy to wrap him around her little finger.

He expected nothing from the little Slytherin, just to be polite and obedient, forgetting about the poisonous teeth snakes tend to have. And Pansy was careful enough never to show what she was truly capable of. Besides being sassy, she was also sly, besides being intelligent, she was manipulative and besides being experienced in bed, she had learned how to handle men outside of the bed.

If you had smiled dumbly, they wouldn't have even thought about you being capable of stabbing them in the back. They _really_ did think that Pansy would back down. They did count on her being benevolent. They really believed her to be an empty-headed puppet, ready for use. Ready to be used by them.

Just because she'd lost everything.

Now, she was a whore, all right.

Favourite little slut of several Warlocks' and even the Minister's… She had access to everything, she heard rumours, she heard plans and she saw things that no one else did. To add up to that, she had a dangerous brain, troublemaker acquaintances and a good surname. The Parkinsons were a truly pure-blooded family, even though the war had wrecked them.

Her father was rotting in Azkaban, her mother was dead – courtesy to Voldemort –, the old money of the Parkinsons' were long gone and she hadn't a husband to bail her out of the trials.

Yes, Theo was kind enough to propose. He wanted to help her, but Pansy didn't want to become a woman like her mother. Married because of the need and being always just the second to her husband. Theo would have had lovers – yes, in plural –, he might have paid for the Ministry to drop the charges against her, but that would have come with a cost. And Pansy simply hated to be indebted.

But Theo did help Daphne in the end. With them tying the knot, he managed to save Astoria too. They escaped from Britain shortly after the wedding and never looked back.

And Pansy was all alone, poor and in need of a job. But she refused to give up.

Blaise and Draco also did offer to help, but she couldn't accept their proposals either. She was, that time, already neck-deep in the business, mainly employed by the ministry officials. She couldn't have possibly played the role of the Lady of the Manor, it wouldn't have done the deal for her. That would have been entirely too preposterous.

So she remained where she was, gathering information and tipping them off to the right people, anonymously helping wherever she could and slowly sabotaging their government to the better of the world.

And the best part? No one noticed her, no one cared about her, and no one was suspicious about her.

She was just a brainless whore. Nothing else.

"Oh," Pansy smiled when getting across papers that were sealed with magic, waiting to be cracked up. It seemed important, coming from Warlock Reid and his ridiculous bunch. They weren't that big of idiots to keep it sealed, but they were egoistical – and that would be their downfall, Pansy decided.

Satisfied with today's work, Pansy patted the peacefully sleeping Shacklebolt's bald head and with her invitingly swaying hips, left the Minister's office.

* * *

 _Oh well, I love Pansys, she became hardcore, and I'm not sorry. With aconitum, I hopefully did my homework right! But I let you be the judge of that! Also, sorry for the long wait. I rewrote everything at least eight times (and also got hooked on Bnha...) Anyway, hope you liked it and you would make my day if you sent something back for this chapter! :)_


	4. Theoretically speaking

**Chapter III: Theoretically speaking**

 _(about a hospital, fish and an invitation)_

* * *

Draco really did feel sorry for the healers in St. Mungo. The morning shift was always shitty – or so as he heard from their private healer when he was formerly employed by the hospital –, but with his mother commanding the employees as if they were house elves of their Manor, it must have made the morning shift even more elevating. Not that he was empathic or something. It was just an errant thought.

"Please, Mrs. Malfoy, calm down for the sake of your husband's health and let the healers do their work," a particularly brave nurse or an assistant ( _whatever_ ) tried to do her best, but even she couldn't ignore the cackles and streaks of lightning flashing in between Narcissa's golden curls of hair, her magic hardly contained and threatening the poor chit with its sheer force. She looked positively dangerous.

 _Mrs. Malfoy, we are sorry to inform you and we humbly apologize for our carelessness in this given situation. Your husband is currently under the care of the St. Mungo's and…_

"I don't care," she whispered in a chilling voice, cooling the blood of several people around them. All she wanted was to get back his husband, alive and in his right mind, screw the reporters and the Daily Prophet. When it was the matter of family, Narcissa didn't care about maintaining images or bad journalism.

"Heal him and I would not cause any problems to the hospital," was all the verdict she said before storming to the other end of the aisle with her head held up and her back alarmingly straight.

It was a promise. A dangerous one at that.

If they dared to do anything out of line, possibly and all by _accident_ , murdering her husband, Narcissa made sure they knew she would wreck them with trials and fines just because the Malfoys had more gold then the damned government could resist to.

"Well fuck," Draco said in frustration, trying not to feel underdressed in the middle of a busy hospital aisle in his sleeping robe. He hardly had the time to slurp in his coffee before his mother rushed them to the hospital right after hearing the news. "You did it again, Potter," he mumbled to himself, blaming the saviour of their world for all of his current miseries.

Of course Potter needed to be the deliverer of the news. Who else, really? From all the cursed acquaintances they had, surely, it had _needed_ to be Potter, yes?

With a roll of his eyes, he listened to his mother commanding officials and healers to rush to the aid of his father. They said Lucius was unconscious, probably shocked, severely bruised and he lost three of his fingers, the little finger on his left and the right index and ring fingers.

The worst part? All they could do was watch and pay the healers generously – former Death Eaters still not got a heartfelt welcome in the wards of hospitals, after all.

"He will get better," he whispered to his mother, his small and lithe mother, dressed only in her silky morning robes, her hands latched on the door frame as she soberly watched the healers work on her husband, lest they take a step out of line.

"Malfoys are strong," she said in the end, her fingers whitening on the frame. She seemed to tremble a little, like a wilted flower in the wind, ready to lose its petals to it. "I know. But it still gives me concern."

Blue orbs met with silvers and Draco nodded. He understood.

"We don't know what happened or why it happened. If they are after us, or Death Eaters or money or power… there are a lot more options, Draco. Be careful, my son," she said, and Draco silently vowed to her.

"He was called there for business. Must be the money," he predicted and his mother just shook her head, her eyes not wavering from his father's weakened form, buried under pearly white sheets.

She huffed a laugh, her voice gentle and cautioning, "If something I learned during my years and the two wars I survived is, that to not always believe in the given options. We don't know the other people well enough to understand their motives, but we can figure some things out with observation and galleons. Be careful, my boy," she repeated and let her lips curve into something like a bitter smile, "because I have nothing without you and your father."

Draco heard what was unsaid, looking at his mother wearing her façade, hiding her emotions from the eyes and ears of the outsiders. The sudden feeling of melancholy seemed to drill into his very bones.

They survived two wars. They lived by craft, and he knew that they sometimes cheated on each other, but they held their backs for the other. His parents weren't perfect as a married couple, they were never good with showing emotions and speaking about the matters of the heart, but they were equals in every meaning of the word and without Lucius, it was only so long Narcissa could go on.

Nevertheless, they were deeply in _unconfessed_ love and Draco was the ultimate proof of it.

"I'll look into it," he assured his mother with a sharp nod, deciding to pay a visit to motherfucking Potter to figure out what the heck happened to his father.

* * *

"Check-mate," he claimed emotionlessly, not even pretending to be surprised that he had managed to best her. Again.

Even though it happened rarely. Sometimes it happened when Pansy was too invested in her own thoughts to pay attention, sometimes when she needed to pay a visit to Gringrotts and handle those foul goblins or sometimes, when she needed to find loopholes or solve puzzles in formal documents and who to sell her information.

Most of the time that was why she spent her free time – willingly! – with Percy Weasley, chief Interrogator of the Magical Law Enforcement.

They liked playing chess, discussing political matters and occasionally fuck mindlessly on her ancient furniture just to rile up the spirits of her forefathers who detested the Weasley family even more than their generation did during their Hogwarts years. It was a method of cooping, and it was a way to get rid of the stress which was satisfaction enough on itself for both party.

"You're distracted, Parkinson," he said wisely, leaning back in the chair.

Pansy rolled her eyes, "Of course I am. Otherwise, you wouldn't stand a chance. Not in chess, not even in anything else," she said scathingly, but her venom seemed to take no effect on Percy.

"Figured so much," he shrugged, "Though you're shit with paperwork and finances."

Pansy flicked her hand in irritation, "And that's exactly why you are living with me, in the St. Michael's Mount, the well-known and ancient Parkison family estate just to get away from your own family. And what I get in return? You keep the goblins off my back. And do the fucking paperwork. That's worth it," she toasted with her champagne glass mockingly.

It didn't matter it was eight in the morning. She just needed to use her head and it was appropriate drink with her breakfast. Salmon just _screamed_ champagne as a side.

He was used to drunk pureblood princesses, so Percy didn't even question it.

"What's got your screws moving now?"

Pansy smiled and with a flick of her wand, she _accioed_ there one of the many stolen letters she smuggled out of the Ministry. One, which interestingly enough, wasn't opened yet, hence it bugged her to no end.

"I cannot crack the seal," she confessed and threw it to Percy. "I tried everything but potions. It wasn't really my subject."

"Well, no wonder you are shit at cooking too." He somehow managed to catch Pansy's vengeful toss of the letter – as if that would cause any harm –, but when reading the names on it, he nearly dropped it. "Warlock Reid and Kingsley? They should have plenty things to hide." Pansy confirmed with nod, that much, she also gathered. "Why do you want to know?"

The woman sighed and downed her champagne in one go, entirely forgetting about their rematch of chess. "Theoretically speaking, what would you do when you smell something fishy? And I'm not talking about the salmon I had for breakfast," she cast him a meaningful glance, and burning coals met melting caramels. "I haven't heard any rumours in the Ministry about their involvement with each other. They don't even greet each other outside of the office! They loath each other – Reid is obnoxious and Kingsley is too proud to pounce on provocations. I have no inkling to what they need to discuss this privately."

"So theoretically speaking, it might be a government secret. The seal is strong and tricky, they really didn't want anyone to know about this business of theirs. Besides, have you tried a library?" he inquired as he carefully scratched the wax on the luxurious paper. It spat sparks on his fingers.

"You confuse me with Granger and I need to warn you: I am very much offended," Pansy snorted, waving for an elf to refill her glass. "You're an arsehole, Weasley."

Not if Percy Ignatius Weasley could be fazed easily with the commentary. He was too absorbed in the mystery of the letter to pay any attention to Parkinson. "Theoretically, it can be a big fish," he nodded towards her plate, "And not like the salmon you had for breakfast, of course."

"Oh wow, your flouted jokes are a crime against wizardry, Weasley," she commented drily. "But back to the catch: might be or might not be a big fish, but it definitely _does_ smell. And I'm curious," she scrunched up her nose in thought, "This letter was in the double-bottom drawer. I needed the code to open it up… Our Minister had probably not read it yet, nevertheless he didn't risk anyone finding this piece of paper. He usually has investigation papers and law legislations lying around the whole office…"

"But this one was under locks, yes?" Percy asked, looking up at the enormous glass chandelier, as if asking the heavens for an answer. "So it must be important. They are leaders in the Ministry, one is the Minister and the other is a Warlock, member of the jury of the Wizengamot. They control everything, and their potential ally could just be to get the remaining Sacred Twenty-Eight under control. They have been trying to prosecute the Malfoy's seats ever since the war ended."

That was also a possibility, Pansy thought, thinking sourly that if it wasn't for sacrificing her money for her somewhat-freedom she would have an empty seat in Wizengamot waiting for her too. But she didn't and she was nothing but a whore right now.

It was kind of ridiculous.

The Ministry still didn't have enough control to root out the old money and prestige from there. Victorious families like the Weasleys, non-participants like the Greengrasses and families deeply involved in the Dark Arts still all had seats in the jury.

"Now that would be a problem," she echoed, the thoughts running in her head with the speed of the lightning. A quite quick and destructive one at that, ready to cause eternal chaos. "If the Sacred Twenty-Eight got wind of it, half of the ministry staff would be dead in an overnight. All together we stoked up more money and estates than muggle aristocrats ever had the opportunity to. Alchemy was in our hands, we had magic and wizards had control over the Kings and Queens for centuries. We certainly have our puppets too that did and still do the dirty work for us."

"At least families involved with Dark Arts do," Percy quipped and Pansy squinted at him with amusement. "The Minsitry only chooses to overlook it, as I am sure. Sadly, I have no knowledge of these things so far, and these secrets are not really in the curriculum of Hogwarts, you realize."

"Theoretically speaking," Parkinson started, leaning over the table eagerly, her eyes laughing with mirth at him and that alone, didn't let his gaze wander off, "what if I said the puppets weren't humans at all? You must have an idea why wizards generally detest magical creatures, right?" Percy's brows knotted in confusion, watching the crafty woman smile at him condescendingly. "They lived only to serve us, wizards. You can remember the teachings right? Magical creatures are below us," there was no need to sugar-coat it. "Elves are still here to serve, dragons can be tamed, vampires can be easily fed merry and werewolves can be broken to the point that they do not resist. There's only so many species who managed to resist to the tyranny of wizards, you realize."

Understanding flashed in his eyes, "Unicorns, centaurs and mermaids. They are still free." The Weasley needed a moment to gather his thoughts to properly answer, "So, theoretically speaking, the Ministry has no chance if they want to get rid of the Twenty-Eight's influence in the government."

"Theoretically speaking," Pansy continued with a smile she used for seducing those arrogant ministry workers, "They have no fucking chance to overthrow a system that has been on the go ever since Hogwarts' Founders were living on the British Isles."

* * *

The fireplace roared to life in Harry's office with the poison green flames and the figure of Draco Malfoy emerged from them like a soulless wanderer from the pits of Hell. The only thing ruining this aesthetic was his sleeping robe.

Well, no one can be perfect, Harry noted to himself as he was already well-armoured for the incoming whiplash that was the prick demanding information and a throughout investigation. But who was he to fail him, really? He would have reacted in the same, were it his own father. That is, if he had had a living father.

"Don't even start with the speech, I know," Harry cautioned much like in the fashion of an elderly man, in lack of his beauty sleep, but certainly not of his cigarettes. "You don't look particularly energetic today either, Malfoy."

"And you look positively terrible Potter, but do you see me complaining?" came the scathing answer as he threw himself down on one of the chairs. He had no interest in actual tongue-lashing as it seemed. "I need some more details about the attack against my father," he said, but by definition, it was more likely to be a demand than a casual conversation starter.

Harry blew the smoke out of his nose, "I've pulled an all-nighter because of the damned paperwork. Read it if you want, but it truly is a bore," he carelessly tossed it towards him and Draco gladly received it, his eyes eagerly running through the gibberish formal sentence of the first page.

Ah, he planned to stay. Fantastic.

Not that he didn't expect Malfoy, ever since he had Floo called them in the morning, and thus, informing them about Lucius' hospitalization. It was a miracle in itself that Malfoy didn't trot in his office earlier, wrecking havoc. At the very least, he didn't scare away his new assistant.

"Father was there for two days? Hanged unconsciously and no one found him?" he hissed, not even looking up from the documents and turning pages.

"Well, you weren't really worried before either," Harry shot back and Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Because he shouldn't even be back to England until next week. When he had business, he tends to forget to Floo back ho—" he suddenly fell silent, his eyes widening as he reread the paragraph. "What do you mean you haven't found any trace of anyone being there?" he questioned hotly, looking up from the third page, the grey of his eyes alive with the flames of anger. "That's just whimsical," he hissed and squared his jaw with the force that his teeth were on the verge of breaking, "If your fucking department would do its job thoroughly…"

"There was a golem there, but we didn't recognize the magical trace that was left on it. It's not in the international records," Harry answered patiently.

"Oh yes, good thing we know that it wasn't just an anonym attacker, he was fucking powerful too!" Draco snapped, knowing full well how it was no small deal to animate mud into an actual breathing creature with personality traits. "Marvellous work Potter, really, I'm bowing before you."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, spitting out the last of his cigarette. That was the last thing he needed after today's work.

"SHUT UP Malfoy," it just burst out of the too sleep-deprived auror who was already through three migraines and half a pack of Marlboro. And it wasn't even nine o'clock. "Just shut up for a minute."

It was like fuel to the already blazing fire and Draco exploded, cheeks red and fists trembling with anger as he gripped the damned paper he, otherwise, wasn't even entitled to read.

"I don't know if you had noticed," he spat back with enough sugary venom to rot out his teeth, "but shutting up usually doesn't help when one is incapable of doing their jobs rightly, for which, might I add, they even get paid. My father is in St. Mungo's, my mother already threatened half of the hospital and if someone is out for our blood, we, most certainly, are fucked as former Death Eaters do not receive any protection from the Minsitry, thanks to the modern law system, all _fucking_ heil Kingsley. Do you have any idea how serious this issue could be?" he questioned, his voice quiet and ending with a threatening hiss. He wasn't just playing.

So in the end, it was, ironically, Harry who promptly and effectively shut up while Draco kept going on.

"I needed to keep a blank face all through this morning and I didn't even get my usual _chocolate_ _croissant_ and as you see, I didn't have the time to dress myself properly, so do me a favour Potter and make you department do its job!"

Both knew he wasn't that angry over the croissants, but still, it flabbergasted Harry how he twisted his worry to suit his conscience.

But his conscience be damned, before Potter could have thrown back any well-earned insults in the blonde's face, the fireplace yet again roared to life, this time delivering a jolly-looking Hermione Granger in an oversized pink sweater. Well, she was jolly-looking until the general drop of temperature, unrestrained tension and the unconcealable flare up of testosterone registered in her brain.

"Should I leave?" she asked cautiously, her eyes jumping in between the two males, daring each other to continue their quarrel with intense contest of holding the others' gaze. She speculated, they were _this_ close to whipping out their wands for a duel.

Hermione discretely sniffed the air, and quietly noted, no massacre happened during her absence. But that didn't mean she would be inclined to leave them alone just for the sake of freely continuing what they had started.

"No," Harry said after a minute or so, suddenly leaning back in his leather chair, his hands massaging the back of his neck. He decided not to pursue victory, deeming the towering papers more of a pressing matter. "No, you should not leave, Hermione. Why did you pop over?"

"Oh well, if you're busy it's nothing," she blabbered, not knowing where to put the image of Malfoy being in the Minsitry in his sleeping robes. She had never seen him look so _human_ in the recent years. He had black circles under his eyes and his hair was dishevelled. It was a casual reminder that always proper and peacock Draco Malfoy, was too, in fact, a human being. "I just wanted some breakfast and some company. Thought I would ask you," she said in the end.

"Sorry Hermione, but—," Harry gestured weakly towards his messy desk, but before he could have continued the blonde terror interrupted them.

"Yes, freaking amazing idea, Granger. _Breakfast_ ," Draco rolled it on his tongue as if that was the world's sexiest word. The tension from his stiff shoulders seemingly dissipated."I'm coming with you," he declared absent-mindedly, surprising the other two war heroes.

"I—What?"

It felt like she had a sudden brain freeze as all she could do, was most certainly, gaping at the man clad in his sleeping robes and craving after delicacies.

"You heard me," he shrugged casually, as if casualty was one of his personality traits. Where was his aloofness, to start with? "I am hungry after all. And anyway, we still have some details to work on considering the funds and I need my chocolate croissants. We're going to the French bakery on Diagon. Any objections?" he continued before she could have opened her mouth for weak protests, "Thought so. Then you're coming."

So he stood up, expectantly casting a gaze on Hermione.

"You're in your sleeping robes."

"Fantastic observational skills," he said with an eye roll with more of a bored undertone of his words than a cruel one. He didn't just look like an actual human being; he was almost behaving like one too. "Now, are you coming?"

She couldn't really understand his reasoning (well, beside the papers), but still, they were nothing but distant acquaintances who most certainly, did not go on Monday brunches together. But she was way too curious not to accept his nonsensical offer.

So she nodded, leaving Harry baffled in the middle of a mess he called office.

* * *

 _Okay so after months of struggling with writing something (literally anything), I feel it's comint back! I actually want to continue and finish this story! So I won't promise weekly updates, but I'll try my best. Hope you liked it with these characters and their placements in the story. Thank you for reading!_


	5. Businesses

**Chapter IV: Businesses**

 _(about a sligthly ill-tempered brunch, a poison and a spell)_

* * *

The sickeningly sweet scent of French baked goods in Diagon's first _boulangerie_ resulted with Hermione nearly losing her footing. There were buttered croissants, macaroons, the smell of burnt French coffee, baguettes and meaty sandwiches inside that just made her mouth water.

The wolf inside her was practically wagging its tail with excitement like a cheeky puppy would at the sight of particularly delicious treats. She felt her lungs rumble with satisfaction, the wolf already loyal to Malfoy for apparating them right into this little shop instead of wasting their precious time in Diagon's busy street.

While her eyes drank all the delicious looking food in, Malfoy swaggered into the place like he owned it. His sleeping robes now were transfigured into a black robe with the most intricate silver embroidery she had ever seen up close. His style of dressing clashed horribly with Hermione's pink, fluffy sweater and common jeans.

They complimented each other, Hermione thought. She looked nothing like the brightest witch of the century and he looked more like a peacock strutting around the place than a powerful wizard she suspected he was.

With keen senses she could pick up on the magic in the people's core better and even if it was hard to confess, Malfoy's core was bigger and more lively than Ron's ever could have been. His was on pair with Harry's, but more buzzy. Ever since Harry and Ginny had broken up, Harry's magic was lacking its kick and he was now more like existing than living his life to the fullest.

"Are you coming, Granger?" he barked back towards her and she rolled her eyes as an answer, snapping out of her reverie. With swiftness in her steps, she walked over and took the place opposite him, her attention already more focused on the food the _boulangerie_ offered than the blonde menace in front of her.

Tapping the crystal ball to place her order of two beef sandwiches, she nodded approvingly towards Malfoy. It seemed the bakery made a real effort with keeping up with new technique that was commonly used by now in America and really, by any other wizarding society – not like half of the very British wizarding companies and shops, which preferred to stick to the long standing way of lives, conveniently forgetting about, if not right out ignoring the technological evolution all together and not considering that there were other beverages on planet Earth beside tea.

"Just sandwiches, Granger? Don't you fancy a drink?" she shook her head without a world, being way too focused on her awaited food appearing on the table out of thin air. She loved magic. "Shame. I thought you were an addict to coffee back at school," Malfoy casually said and Hermione just shook her head, joyfully taking an enormous bite of her meaty and juicy sandwich.

"It kept me awake after studying all night," she confessed, forcing herself not to wonder how Malfoy got to know such a delicate and worthless detail of her person. "I cannot drink it anymore."

Truth be told, she did not hate black coffee, she was just unable to truly enjoy it with the side-effects it pulled on her system. It kicked her system right in the guts – her heart would start beating with a speed that could cause harm to her arteries, it made her drool and run around the woods in human form for hours-long.

Harry laughed too hard for his own good when they found out about this.

"Such an utterly typical, swotty answer to the question… Keeping you awake after learning all night, hah," he mused while munching on his desired chocolate croissant. He hummed when he encountered with the nougat crème filled inside of the delicate batter. The intensity of the sound shook Hermione's world a little bit. "So are you not that involved with your research nowadays? With abandoning caffeine, you must not have the same inconsistence like back in school, right?"

Hermione snorted, not very lady-like, but the way he twisted the words was certainly one of the most unnerving things she ever had the fortune of experiencing. In conclusion, her snort of disbelief was justified.

"Smooth," she said before taking the last bite of her formerly enormous sandwich. Malfoy still wasn't even half-done with his croissant, but he didn't give any signs of noticing it or thinking of it like an unnatural phenomenon to see her devour her food within minutes. "What do you want to know?" she asked bluntly and Malfoy stopped eating to hold her eyes for an errant moment.

"I want to see the documents and more of your findings," he blurted out and before she could have protested, he continued, "Yes, I know I have seen the official documents. But I'm more interested in your personal notes. The methods, the lab rats…, the whole thing, you understand. I want to be involved in the process of wiping lycanthrophy off of the continent."

There was a pause in the conversation that stretched longer than melted mozzarella sticks could ever do so. Hermione huffed at the unexpected image her mind painted for her in its utter shock.

"You want to join my research programme?"she asked, bewildered, promptly forgetting about the sandwich in her hands and letting it ungracefully fall back on the white china, despite her raging hunger. Surprise was a strong emotion – she realized. "Why?"

Draco shrugged, "Why not?" he took a sip of his tea, his eyes studying her mimics as he knew, she was battling with herself. Her pristine teeth were biting in her lower lips as she cracked her head and sought out reasons on a pro-contra list. "With the danger of getting myself killed by one of Father's clients, I need to lay low for some time. I don't need one more assassins targeting my back. And this is the perfect solution and it is would not be fruitless, that, you need to admit, Granger," he murmured, his eyes capturing her gaze. Draco did smirk when he saw her lowering her guard and opening up to his goading. "I'm a potion expert," her reasoned.

"So am I," she shot back, her voice firm, but it was obvious that her thoughts were running way faster than she could have formed the sentences to tell him off. "That's not really relevant."

He tutted, trying a different approach this time: "I do have a knack for magic. Come on Granger, you know that, too."

"Yes right," she nodded. "You were always the second in ours classes. Otherwise, you were first in classes I didn't take. That's not so bad. And also, the vast historical material in the Malfoy Library is famous on its own. That's undoubtedly one more benefit of you, that, I admit."

"But?" he prompted with a cocked eyebrow and she tilted her head to the side. He calculated carefully, knowing that he was about to taste victory.

However, Hermione readily shot down his high hopes.

"You wouldn't know how to adjust to the creatures. You are bound to treat them as animals – as any other bigoted pureblooded folk would. You were in contact with Greyback during the war, I'm sure you remember: he devoured, tortured and turned people into wolves. Even Voldermort handled him as nothing more than a gruesome lap-dog, throwing some bones to him to behave as he wished," She didn't need to look in those grey orbs to know that he understood. "In short, you wouldn't be able to handle my so called ' _lab rats'_ as more than cannibals, I suspect. Werewolves are humans too," she finished and went back to her breakfast.

Medium roasted beef flesh was good enough of reason to ignore Malfoy for the remaining part of their brunch. She suspected that this wasn't just their first — it was also their last one, too.

"So you think," he started up suddenly, resulting with Hermione looking up. There was the grayest storm in his eyes, his jaw was firmly locked and his hands were trembling as he tried to grasp a control over his undeniable anger. "Just because I'm a bigoted pureblood, I didn't take blows?"

Hermione waited in silence, her brows knotted in confusion. She could now clearly see as his barely-restrained magic flared up within the cage of his ribs and the way their surrounding started paying attention to the two of them, sensing the rise in his powers. Even they could feel how hard Malfoy pushed himself – to do what, she wasn't exactly sure.

She murmured a discrete _muffliato_ and covered their table with it. It wouldn't do them well if one of the Prophet's reporters got wind of their current choice of topic.

"Death Eaters aren't treated as humans, if you wish to know," he seethed the words through the tight lock of his teeth. Blinded by the rage that was bubbling within him, he didn't even notice Hermione's spell. "I was prodded and pricked with needles for days during my short stay in Azkaban. So believe me, I do have an idea of being a lab rat of the higher-ups."

How do you calm down someone on the verge of having a rampage? She could not only see, but by this time, _hear_ his magic cackle near his shoulders just as sudden cracks speedily appeared on the crystal ball in the middle of their table as his fury proceeded to intensify.

"So Granger, I have a new deal set up for you," she needed to gulp, finally getting the nerves with his eyes flashing with lightning and threatening her. Turns out even her strong-willed wolf could be intimidated into drawing back. "You involve me in your programme and I give you the damned funds, or otherwise, no money for you," he declared, knowing full well how much control he had in that situation.

At that, she _needed_ to square her shoulders for yet another go. That, was simply put, unacceptable. She wasn't his toy to toss away or to bribe into doing whatever he wished to do. Maybe, that's how he managed their family to worm themselves so deep in the Minsitry, but she couldn't be that easily thwarted. Hermione Granger wasn't someone he wanted to play enemies with.

The same way as Draco Malfoy wasn't someone she wanted to test her sharp mind on. They were too similar in the fashion of minds to be able to truly win the game against the other, without otherwise unnecessary casualties, and that, both of them recognized.

So Hermione decided wisely, thinking about it carefully, out of the box and using a soothing voice one might want to use to calm a cornered beast to coax into acceptance.

"In that case, I have one condition, Malfoy," he haughtily nodded, expecting nothing of much concern from an already weakened business partner. "You take the Unbreakable Vow. Tomorrow, at my house, eight o'clock, sharp," and she wolfed down the very last piece of her sandwich, not breaking eye-contact with Malfoy, whose mind was already working on figuring the mystery ( _which was her_ ) out.

"Why?" he asked crisply as Hermione stood up, casually throwing some coins on the table and pulling on her oversized pink sweater in a restless manner.

"Why not?" she shot back and turned away.

It effectively killed off the formalities that would have taken place to say goodbye, if not for their hot heads and incorrigible natures.

* * *

It took her three days to get to read the Daily Prophet. She was always with Aurora Sinistra, assisting her with the lessons as the future Astronomy professor or sorting through the books in the library, so really, Astoria Greengrass had next to no time to read the damned papers.

But when she managed and did read it on this seemingly perfect, sunny day, she needed a moment to compose herself. She wanted to immediately rush out from her bedchambers, heading straight to Greenhouse 3. But she somehow knew that she needed to handle this issue with care – there was a reason Neville didn't reach out to her.

His parents died in St. Mungo's four days ago.

Losing people to death was never an easy deal. No one should be alone during that time, that, she knew. If it wasn't for Daphne, she would have been crushed by the weight she needed to balance on her shoulders during the last few years.

However, it didn't change the fact that she needed to find him and confront him. Maybe demanding answers was not a good way of approach, but Neville should not be alone – she reasoned to herself. And Astoria knew well enough where to find Neville Longbottom, their Herbology professor of Hogwarts. He always pulled overtime and researching more plants for their use in potions and charms and it oftentimes resulted with him always wanting to achieve more than his health could bear. He had an obsession with saving lives – she knew that, but not the reason.

So it didn't take a genius to figure out where he would be.

It must have been cruel – she mused to herself as she walked down the stairs, composing herself and trying to lose the nerves, trying to form a plan to confront him –, he never even got to actually come to know his own parents. Even though she never wanted to hear it from anyone but Neville, she heard the rumours. They said that the Longbottoms were _as good as dead_ to the world – weighty words whose meaning most people never even realize.

"Neville?" she approached carefully, her impractical furry slippers making a strange pitter-patter noise as she stepped into Greenhouse 3, which resembled jungle more that it should have been possible in rainy, cloudy Britain.

The professor jumped when he registered the sudden intrusion and his bloodshot eyes met with Astoria's brightly shining blues.

"Why did you not share it? You didn't say anything to Ronald either, right?" she demanded, waving the papers like a crazed woman and probably alerting half of Hogwarts with the way how her voice danced in between octaves and volumes.

That seemed to do the deal, "I didn't want to burden anyone, but Ron came days ago. I had very much the same conversation with him." Neville sagged and turned back to his precious botanical weeds he held oh so close to his heart. Closer than he held Astoria, anyway.

"It's not a burden," she thundered, slapping the goddamned paper on his desk and nearly flipping the table with her movements. She didn't know why she became so irritated with Neville in such a short amount of time. "Then Ronald Bilius should have done a better job," she scoffed. Maybe patronizing would be better of an opening line, she decided. "It's normal to be sorry. And normal to drift away. And it's even normal that you're locked up in here. Pain does that to people."

Withdrawal, what she was suggesting. But all Neville did was just turning his back to her. Yet again.

"It's not pain," he echoed, his long fingers massaging the soil of some delicate asphodels, his blueberry eyes flashing towards her for an errant moment, "It's regret."

She rolled her eyes and was tempted to after all, deliberately flip the table with all of his cherished weeds sprawling on it. She never behaved like Pansy used to – well, minus when she was with Ronald Bilius. She was always the sweet little sister to everyone, but there was a certain amount of bullshite she wasn't willing to take.

"You cannot feel regret for not being able to save them," she retorted sharply, not like how a well-bred pureblooded princess should have. "That's just simply dumb. And you're not dumb."

He chuckled in his deep voice at that, and Astoria shuddered. He sounded a tiny bit crazed over it, but it sure did something to Astoria's genitals. She wisely ignored that something. "You're nice to me. Even though you thought I was a blood traitor."

She actually robbed him off his plant just to get his full and undeterred attention, "Well duh, just before you start with the prejudice speech, please leave the past in where it belongs. We grew up since the war and we are right in the adulting phase of our short lives. So don't you dare be a dummy on me," she threatened delicately, but it did nothing to his still unseeing eyes.

He was all about protests and unsaid word that weighted him down too much that he was clearly on the verge of breaking down. His own demons together with the trauma damaged him more than he cared to confess.

"You wouldn't like me if you knew," was all he said as he once again, turned towards his metal table. The pale sunbeams painted the jungle in a golden hue and it reflected on the one hundred coloured vials that were filled up to the brims.

With trembling hands, he worked his way towards one that stood out with its ethereal turquoise colour. He rolled the intricate clog in between his fingers before passing Astoria the concoction.

"What's that?" she heard herself ask, mesmerized by vibrant blue and the smell of it. It was sweet like honey, but clean like the air outside of the castle. "Is it a new potion?"

"No," Neville added absent-mindedly, "It's a poison. Cyanide, in high concentration. It's lethal."

Seeing as the horror stuck on little Astoria's adorable cheeks, Neville let a cynical smile to curve his lips slightly upwards. It was really fascinating, watching her understand what crime he did commit.

"You must be joking," she echoed weakly, but Neville just shook his head.

The dimples melted away from her cheeks, the smile she formerly sported turned into a grimace and her lively blue eyes lost their shine. Funny, that they were the exact same colour as the cyanide.

"Do you understand regret now, Astoria?" he asked and watched as her balmy lips formed the _O_ of surprise at hearing him speak with his deep baritone. "Do you see why I needed time? I couldn't show my face to authorities or to the public… I would have confessed my actions to Rita fucking Skeeter if she had started an interview. I am a hero turned criminal, Astoria. And I'm fucking breaking under the weight."

The confession right out flabbergasted her – there was no way to deny it. She was unable to look him in the eyes as she reached out for him, torn in between rejecting and accepting his very being. She cautiously took his large hands into her smaller ones while she tried hard not to think about the fact, that he was a murderer now. He was no better than the people rotting away in Azkaban.

But he was Neville Longbottom, the eccentric botanist and the newest addition the Hogwarts' crew. They said he was the very best with plants and he rightly deserved the title of Herbiology professor. He couldn't be _that_ bad.

"Just tell me what you need," she goaded and abruptly, she was taken in his arms, his hug nearly crushing her fragile bones. It was so intense that Astoria was trembling with Neville as he asked for an anchor and as she was overwhelmed by the innate willingness of wanting to provide him more than that.

"Time," he breathed softly in her ear right before the fat tears broke loose from his bloodshot, blueberry eyes. He fisted the baggy robes on Astoria's back as he cried through the seemingly perfect, sunny day.

His consolation was right there. _She_ was there. And that seemed to do the trick for him.

* * *

Compared to the delicious smell of the bakery, Kingsley's office was stinking. The stench came from the horrendous mix of alcohol, vanilla cigars and sex and she really didn't want to be _that_ involved in the life of the Minister.

"Hermione," Kingley greeted her and hastily shut the drawer with finality as he stood up and reached out towards her. He waited for a handshake with a warm smile, Hermione realized. He seemed genuinely happy to see her.

But who knows where his hands were before?

So she obviously ignored the offered right and instead just sat down in front of the desk. She might have played it off as being a bit passive, but this kind of conversation needed her undeterred attention to get herself into a good deal.

Kingsley seemed to be disappointed by her rejection as he slumped back in his office chair that was made from the finest and most comfortable dragonhide – she was sure. It creaked awkwardly as he slightly shifted before finally speaking.

"So what business do you have in here?"

Hermione nodded, accepting the starter for a serious kind of conversation. She reached into her well-worn bag to fish out the papers she wanted to give him for so long. For months, she had conflicts over this issue with herself, never quite knowing when the right time was to give up her projects and leave the Ministry.

"I want to quit," she confessed and slid the perfectly packed papers towards the Minister.

"No, I object," he said simply and slid the papers back towards her. His eyes held hers firmly, his commanding and intimidating aura would have scared a newbie back to their office chair, but Hermione had fought a war shoulder to shoulder with this man. She wasn't about to back down.

"I want to do more and try myself in other fields of magic. I want to think outside of the box," now, this sounded like a passable excuse, so she used it to her advantage.

She would have the funds by tomorrow she would even have company to share theories with… After all, she couldn't exactly tell Kingsley about the research. The Ministry would try to stop her – she was sure of it. Call it instinct or intuition, she just felt it in her bones: if she told him a word of it, she would be dragged out to face the Wizengamot itself.

"Then you know what comes next," Kingsley breathed out, slowly and in a way that suggested he was sorry for his actions. But both knew what would happen and Hermione didn't protest against it. "I will try one more time: you should stay, Hermione. I know you are familiar with the incantation and how you hate it. You are a clever witch, you probably realize the cost of quitting. But I can see it in your eyes, you have already decided, right? Then I must to do it, Hermione."

"I wouldn't change my mind. I need some freedom," was the words she said at last, her fingers fisting in her sweet, pink sweater. She wished they were already done with it.

Kingsley nodded once, his hawk-like eyes softly smiling down on Hermione as he stood up. "I am happy that you had worked for us for so long. You achieved great things, and as Minister, I am grateful for all of your efforts and your inventions. You only bettered the world ever since we ended the war," he said and Hermione could hardly keep herself from commenting. If Kingsley had known what she really was… "I hope you will have a good day, Ms. Granger."

"Thank you," she closed her eyes in acceptance, her body trembling with trepidation as she started counting the seconds while waiting for him to finally wave his wand.

" _Obliviate._ "

* * *

 _Hope you liked it! Thank you for reading it! I'm kinda dead because it's like slightly after midnight and I did't get more than 5 hours-long sleep in two days (damn the heat wave) but I managed to deliver it, well, not on time, but not so terribily late either. Anyway, hope I deserve a review for the (so far) longest chapter! Next chapter is coming up in two weeks! :)_


	6. Reunion

**Chapter V: Reunion**

 _(about a deal, a potion and the circle of drunkards)_

* * *

The building of the Daily Prophet looked unnecessarily obnoxious to someone as delicate-eyed as Narcissa. Too many intricate designs, too many overpriced ornaments hanged from the wall that did not fit the old construction's overly Victorian style. It looked too posh and overly creative compared to the trash their journalists loved to publish.

With a gentle, hardly detectible scrunch up of her nose, she stepped into the threshold, her heels intimidatingly clicking on the cheap, hollow stone of the floor. No one dared to stop her as she casually strode straight into Rita Skeeter's office.

The assistant – who was in the middle of filing her nails to claws – lifted her pretty, little head upwards to have a look at the intruder, but after getting a figurative slap from the regal woman's commanding presence, she completely turned a blind eye to Narcissa's entrant.

"Ms. Skeeter," Narcissa's mouth curled up in an elegant, but so utterly sly of a smile that it would have made any sane person shiver. The journalist nearly dropped her tea cup at sudden intrusion, her ominous glasses sliding down her nose, nearly on the verge of falling down. "I'm so glad that you have made time for me, Ms. Skeeter."

"Narcissa Malfoy," she started cautiously, putting her black tea down carefully, her eyes not quite meeting Narcissa's, but she wasn't letting go of the authority so easily. It was her office, after all, however messy it was. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I _accidentally_ overheard that you are in charge of writing the article about my husband's hospitalization," Lady Malfoy said, but it sounded more like a statement than an actual question. To Narcissa, there was absolutely no need for sugarcoating.

"And?" Rita sniffed impatiently, not understanding where the noble woman was leading her. Her outburst might have been dangerous, but Rita was not easily overpowered, especially in her own field of work. Journalism, after all, was not just a job or a passion of hers. It meant _life_ – she thrived on publishing stories, doing the detective work, proving her right and rubbing it in other people's faces like one would rub salt in the enemy's bleeding wound.

"I need you to do a favour for me, Ms. Skeeter."

"Meaning?" Her chopped answers were grating on Narcissa's nerves at this point – and she wasn't even in the presence of the other woman for ten whole minutes. Not that she ever let it show on her face, obviously not.

"To simply put, I _need_ it to appear like an accident in the newspaper. Something that happened by his carelessness. _Clumsiness_ , for all I care. But sell it to the Prophet in a way that would please me, Ms. Skeeter," she ordered, not bothered by how Rita squinted at her in disbelief at her audacity, her eyes turning into narrow slits behind her unfashionable glasses.

"Lucius? As _clumsy_? Right, the people will eat it up," she mocked and Narcissa's blue eyes flashed with anger at her nit-picking. The details were the least what Narcissa cared about. She needed the job done, and fast.

"The _hows_ have very little meaning to me. Make the people believe it, just solve it, and the Malfoys will not end your carrier this time around," she graced her with a promise as if she were a queen of lands and told a verdict over the head of a peasant.

And that amused Rita Skeeter more than anything that happened so far this day.

"You know, Narcissa, I keep thinking that you forget what happened during the war," her fingers idly played with one of the ostentatious trinkets as she spoke, calmly and surely, entirely at ease. She _felt_ she had the power. "You are nothing but an outlaw in the eyes of the people. You can never—"

"And you keep forgetting," Narcissa sharply interjected, her eyes flashing the bluest storm that was ready to viciously strike, "that even though we have – according to you – no political standing, the Prophet still _somehow_ sells what I want published about my family. Interesting, isn't it? _Mysterious_ , even," she let the threatening edge of sweetness play within her voice, as if she were truly wondering, not knowing exactly the _whys_. It was as if honey was dripping from her lips as she continued with the role of the clueless. "I still have three Gringrotts vaults full of money. And that's something few can resist to, you understand."

"Maybe you have that," Rita started haughtily, grabbing on the opportunity right away. "But I still have the choice to say no, you realize? There's nothing you can spill to your socialites that can break my carrier in halves. I grew stronger since _last_ _time_."

Narcissa carelessly waved her delicate hand, as if she was only shooing away an irritating bug, not bothered by the journalist's rude interruption. The witch's voice was airy as she continued. "Oh well then you probably wouldn't care about your _affairs_ being published, yes? You're formidable with gaining enemies, you realize? There are quite some people in the Prophet that would gladly _stab_ you in the back. They are just waiting for an excuse, I'm sure."

Rita Skeeter felt like she was knocked out of her office chair as the roles seemed to revert to how they started off. Her lips tightened into a fine line.

"I'm not doing charity," she seethed from in between the secure lock of her magically whitened teeth.

"Just as I suspected," Narcissa sighed, slightly disappointed by the journalist as she carelessly tossed a bag full of shining galleons on her desk, few coins rolling out of it. Rita's eyes flashed with greed. "Don't forget our deal, Ms. Skeeter."

Rita nodded once, a clear sign of her understanding.

A satisfied smile lifted Narcissa's plump lips upwards, "And please, do remember, you are, thankfully, one of those people who can be pulled by money. You are nothing but a puppet attached to a string, eager to gain some influence, you realize, I take. Maybe, it's _life_ itself that you crave so much Ms. Skeeter and right now, I'm not about to stop you," and with the dangerous tilt in her voice, Narcissa gracefully stood up and strode out of the room, leaving her back open and with that, the crumpled office full of trinkets and little secrets.

Secrets, Rita Skeeter was unqualified to keep for herself.

* * *

Getting into Hogwarts was such a meticulous task that in the end, Pansy considered to just bribe some sorry schoolyard opportunist into taking her through the wards and straight into the building. She wouldn't even complain if being subjected to one of McGonagall's infamous lectures.

The legal way was _so_ boring. Well, _partly_ legal, but it still counted more into that category than in the illegal, that is. She had done worse things more certainly, so to her, this occasion caused no dreamless nights – well it was hard to feel guilty when one had no good conscience, anyways.

But still, what Pansy did to get into Hogwarts, was not _totally_ illegal. Yes, let's agree on that term. It sounded accurate.

It played in her hands that Lucius was out of office, dallying time in Russia until next week – well, by tracking employee records, one can get hold of a _hella_ lot of information – so the needed documents were practically _offering_ themselves up for her use. She was forging signatures and magical traces left and right, but at least she was using Ministry approved documents. Anyway, who would worry themselves about some stolen paperwork, really? No one had that kind of time.

So with being not totally illegal and managing sped up paperwork, it really only took one (terribly boring and uneventful) day to get the higher up's approval for her short visit to Hogwarts.

"Ms. Parkinson," McGonagall greeted her as Pansy stepped out of the fireplace, sweeping the sooth off her clothes. She let a lazy smile slip on her lips which obviously wasn't for being overjoyed to see her former transfiguration professor, but it still counted as an effort of being polite. It was harder than with the politicians – McGonagall wasn't dumb to begin with. "What a surprise to see you here."

Oh, how she absolutely _detested_ small talk.

"Considering I'm through the necessary check-up charms and I sent the paperwork forward," Pansy held her breath for a moment as if challenging the old professor while fiercely holding her piercing gaze with her coal eyes, "I'm _surprised_ you're surprised."

The old professor cracked a half-hearted smile. It wasn't pure or relaxed, per say. More of a way of recognizing familiarity in her former student.

"Shall we go?"

"Certainly," Pansy agreed.

Trekking through Hogwarts was easy with McGonagall. She didn't require constant chatter like her clients, she didn't think she was an idiot like the politicians and didn't comment on her clothing like her mother would have that is, if her mother were alive. She had time to yet again, map out Hogwarts, finding the hidden passages like, oh here, _Daphne and me pranked the boys so bad that Goyle cried_. Oh there, _I had my first kiss with Krum_ , and let's not forget about _this windowsill I liked to sit on while waiting for the others_.

She cleverly ignored the bad memories that kept popping up as well – _trying to trade off Potter to the Dark Lord in the Great Hall_ , _getting crucioed by the Carrows in this corridor_ , or _seeing my peers die on the castle grounds_.

Wait. _Castle grounds?_ – they were outside, Pansy realized. And why were they headed towards the Greenhouses?

"Greenhouse 3?" she demanded when McGonagall shot her a meaningful glance before stopping in front of the entrance to the local jungle, filled with nasty insects, no doubt. "I thought I made it clear: I need the library. Urgently. I have no time to—,"

"Ms. Parkinson please," her old professor promptly cut her off, "the only times you visited the library was because Mr. Malfoy was learning there. You also stated in your letter than you are interested in special potions. Neville is your best option right now, seeing as professor Slughorn is working on a project on the other side of Europe."

The message was clear: McGonagall wasn't going to let her roam the grounds with free access to every of the school's worthy books and knowledge that could uncover secrets and spells that were not for the undeserving foe. Pansy Parkinson was still no more than a fallen Slytherin in the eyes of this witch.

Not that McGonagall wasn't right. Considering her line of work, it was doubtful if it would even pass as a job, not to mention the things she sold out to shady people so that later the aurors could find the foe thanks to her anonymous hints. She couldn't keep tract the number of people residing in Azkaban that might have cursed her.

But looking at the eccentric botanist, whispering to his beloved greenery and vines, Pansy wasn't sure if the last day of work and legality worthed the efforts.

"Right," she permitted. It was easy to recognize when not to fight with the witch – the old professor would look right through her and her not so pure intentions. Though, Pansy doubted she would be able to uncover the whole truths without some throughout research on her person. "Thank you, professor."

With a searching look and a firm nod, McGongall started walking back towards the enormous castle.

Not being sure how to approach and take the first few steps towards the Greenhouse, Pansy knocked on the glass, her hips leaning to the door frame as she looked up from under her long lashes. She used the only way she knew how to approach a man: with a bit of coyness spiked by not so accidental coquettish behaviour, pretending to be all what Pansy Parkinson most certainly wasn't. "Professor Neville, hah," she mused to herself in a low, sultry voice, but loud enough that he would hear her. "Quite a name to earn, Longbottom."

He abruptly jumped, turning towards her with his unfocused eyes and with hands dirtied by soil to his elbows. Neville looked confused, obviously not recognizing her at first glance.

Pansy was hardly able to contain her sigh of disappointment. It was clear that Neville wasn't made of ambitions. He was satisfied with his current occupation, weeding out the Hogwarts grounds.

Seeing the young Herbiology professor, she thought about what Percy said the other day while he was licking his way down to her cunt to wreck some havoc in between her legs, dirtying her ancient dining table with their nakedness. To be honest, by that time, she could hardly hear him from her own moans. It was a miracle in itself that she managed to remember, " _With the Longbottom pair six feet under the ground, the Wizengamot allowed the sole heir to take the spot. Neville Longbottom will be given opportunities, any day by now."_

It was a kind of evidence that screamed in every people's face and the kind that a lot did intentionally ignore. The Wizengamot just wanted one more puppet at their service, and still, so many pretended it wasn't happening under Shacklebolt's reign.

"Parkinson," Neville squinted at her weirdly after long and monotonous moments of utter boredom (for Pansy) and silence (for any other living being). He was not sure about his guess as he continued to study her form with narrowed eyes, though the blueberry of his orbs were still very radiant and noticeable to Pansy. "What do you want?"

She tutted, glad that they were not beating around the bush, like people in the Ministry tended to do so. "Solution would be preferable, but information is enough," she firmly stated and with clicking heels, she ventured into the unknown territory. "I need something that can generate thermogenesis."

He looked positively baffled hearing the word that most certainly screamed _muggle_ and _science_ to him. The other part might have been, if he had known the word, was the fact that Pansy was familiar with the term of thermogenesis.

She rolled her eyes impatiently, "Heat. I need something that produces heat to melt a special wax. Spanish snapping wax, made of European larch and coloured by vermillion. I've tried quite a few me—,"

"Why would you want to melt something so delicate and special. It's a rarity, and I —,"

"Oh don't go smart on me," she snapped, irritated by his rude interruption. It didn't occur to her that she was the one cutting him off just now. "I just need a list of plants that can result in a useful potion. It's not your place to question me."

"Yes, that's what the Wizengamot is for, I suppose."

Well if he had truly known who he was speaking to, he wouldn't have said something like that to her. Her allies in the Ministry and outside of it could drag his name through the stickiest mud, being a war hero be damned.

Still, she chose to ignore that comment. At this point she was desperate enough to let his accusations slip, however wrong they might or might not be. Pansy just wanted to get over with it and receive a recipe that could result in satiating her curiosity. The damned letter was still bugging her to no end.

"Just tell me what I asked for and you won't see me until the next decade, I promise," she half-seethed him her answer, her hands on her hips as she was now more in the role of a commander than a seducer.

Coal eyes met the sharpness of the blueberries.

He sighed in the end, turning away and wiping his hands clean from the dirt, "For generating heat, _incendio_ is the best spell… but you need a perfect control over your flame to melt the snapping wax," he added promptly when not even _seeing_ , but right out _feeling_ Pansy's mouth open in outrage with his sixth sense. She had obviously already tried it, uh huh. So Neville rather continued than risking getting eaten alive by Parkinson. "Then, the second option is _Flagro_ , it's the best potion on the market. It's expensive, though I don't think it would be a problem for you," at that, he pointedly ran his eyes up and down on her clothes, the silk, black trousers, the elegant, white shirt with the floaty and translucent sleeves, her white pumps and numerous accessories with gold and diamonds: several rings, three and a half pair of earrings, bracelets and there even was a flimsy – but obviously worthy – chain dangling on her right ankle.

"Just give me the ingredients," was what she said with a roll of her eyes, avoiding addressing his statement. She didn't need more humiliation: it was bad enough that the Goblins liked to bother her and she needed a socially awkward Weasley to keep them behind their desks; she most certainly wasn't about confessing Longbottom from all people that she was poor. So poor that she couldn't even buy new robes for herself at the moment. " _Please_ ," she added for an emphasis.

Neither of them knew if it was the effect of that meek, hardly perceptible please or anything else's, but Neville did start to talk, nodding towards her firmly.

"Just get cayenne, white willow bark, cardamom and a bucket of cinnamon. It will give the potion a kick with the caffeine and strong ignitibility. Also you may need some drops of blood and ephedra. Also, ocean water for the base."

Right so that's why _Flagro_ was so expensive. If it needs the blood of the user, than the Potion Masters and Mistresses needed to use and alternative for that, and clearly, Pansy was more willing to attempt to brew something that might blow up in her face then to spend her remaining few galleons on it.

Besides, having an old mansion with out-dated bloodwards, it was practically a given that she needed to renew them in every few weeks herself and therefore, cut her palms open with an heirloom to finish off the process.

"The ephedra is for ephedra-2;4-dinitrophe, right?" she asked offhandedly, writing the ingredients on her skin with her index finger, the words appearing on her forearm with something resembling black ink. It didn't bleed in her skin though. _Cinnamon_ , _cardamom_ , _white willow bark_ , _cayenne_ , _blood,_ _ephedra and ocean water_. It didn't seem too hard.

He looked a bit too confused about the chemical name with eyebrows knotted together and head tilted to the side that Pansy felt the need to explain.

"Muggles have some facility called internet caffés. They are pretty useful when you need information about everyday life. Certainly faster than a library, that is," she confessed honestly and absent-mindedly as she was writing down the amount of ingredients she needed, not concerned about how she had just entirely changed his opinion about her very person. Frankly, Neville looked a bit comical with his round eyes on the verge of popping out of their sockets. "Ephedra was one of the most effective ways to lose some weight," she shrugged.

She might be vain, but her job? (let's call it that for simplicity) required her to look her best in every given day, even if she was down on her legs by cold. There was nothing some make-up and a new hairdo couldn't solve – at least according to what some muggles claimed.

"Melting the Spanish snapping wax shouldn't be that hard with _incendio_ either," Neville commented after a few additional moments of silence (translation: utter boredom).

Pansy looked up from her half-written recipe as she rolled the flesh of her plump lower lip in between her teeth. It was clear she was deep down in her reverie.

But anyway, it might have been a way of thanking him, or just simply she had forgotten in whose company she was, but she did grace him with a moderate answer.

"It is, when you want to perfectly preserve what it hides," she pointed out, rolling down her sleeves at last. "Incendio would crisp the paper."

Professor Longbottom could still clearly see the elegant black writing on her skin and he needed to gulp when understanding the sudden desire to run his fingers over it. He wanted to know if the magical writing would disappear under the heat of his touch.

However, Pansy put an abrupt halt to that train of thought with her sudden change of topic and haughtily scrunched up nose. "Besides Longbottom, I feel like you need to do some organisations in here. Also, hire someone for cleaning too. The plants seem to overtake the whole Greenhouse." It was surely more colourful and natural than what she remembered when being a student in here, but still, it was chaos to her eyes.

He really did have a green thumb.

Neville seemed to be put at ease after her comment, a slight grimace appearing on his face while he was obviously pretending that his former thoughts never even existed. "You said it yourself, professor Longbottom is quite a name to earn. I wasn't hired for nothing, you kno—"

"Neville we've got your new pots—," came two figures barrelling into Greenhouse 3 and Pansy's world stopped at recognizing the voice behind the enormous rust coloured pots and vibrant green plants.

"Astoria?" The name stumbled out of her mouth before she could have made sure it was _really_ her.

Hearing her answer was enough of confirmation, anyway.

"Pansy?" The little Greengrass princess asked and even without seeing her, Pansy could imagine her turquoise eyes widening to the side of quaffles and her lips slipping into a formal smile.

The gardening tools nearly landed on the floor as Pansy barrelled Astoria down with a fierce hug, her hands crumpling her dirty apron as Astoria stood there in plain, everyday clothing, unmoved and with lips trembling overwhelmed by the urge to cry at seeing her old schoolmate she considered a sister as well.

"Aren't you with Daphne and Theo? In the states?" Pansy questioned as if she were the head investigator, not even waiting for actual answers. She was practically shaken by the joy and surprise at finding little Astoria in here. "What are you doing in here? Why didn't you seek me out? Or the others? Draco? Blaise? Maybe not Blaise. He would have got you into something illegal."

Not that contact with her wouldn't have, but you know, _details_.

"I'm so glad I've met you. I've missed you, all of you, I—," The tears just kept welling in Astoria's eyes as she mumbled and fumbled, not really knowing how to react at Pansy's intense greeting.

"Oh, there is another one of the demons," they heard a not so welcome acquaintance say which effectively destroyed the warmth of the unexpected encounter.

"Shut it you ape," Pansy shot back at Weasley, the youngest brother. Of course it was the youngest – he tended to always appear when he was the least needed in her life. "You've just ruined the family reunion. Just please, do the world the favour and do fuck off." She told him of with the familiarity of old times and nostalgia while covering Astoria's ears. She was simply too innocent for being subjected to cursing.

Astoria smiled at the other woman's impossibility.

"Such an elegant and noble lady," came the next nip from Ronald Weasley as he kept coming in and out of the Greenhouse with the gardening tools.

He wasn't particularly vicious – he just seemed to enjoy the light banter with the freshly-reunited girls, occasionally chuckling when Parkinson managed to deliver a few good jabs.

"You know Pans, I've heard and used the word _fuck_ before," Astoria chided while yet again removing Pansy's hands off of her person which currently functioned as earmuffs. "We're not back at school. You don't need to protect me anymore. See, I've even got a job. I'll be the next Astronomy professor from next year."

"I'm just really happy you're back, Stori," Pansy looked down at the considerably smaller girl with her gentlest smile. Ron made a noise that was suspiciously a gag, or he might have been on the verge of dying. Anyway, Pansy couldn't be more careless about him. "What about Daphne?"

"They come in a few weeks' of time."

For the first time in years, Pansy was genuinely happy and utterly relived. They were OK, Daphne, Astoria and Theo were all coming back to sad, rainy Britain and she was so excited for it. They had survived the aftermaths of the war, and they weren't hurt in the process.

It had been too long since she counted for herself as being more than a puppet and essentially a pretty little whore in the last few years.

And now she had support. And that meant more to her than anything else did in a long time.

* * *

The Hog's Head was the perfect place for men to waste away their time, and with that, themselves too. It was dodgy, old and not without great booze. So of course, it was understandable why Harry, Ron and Neville kept visiting the place for so many manly meet-ups and drunken nights for the care of their partly broken hearts.

"I cannot believe Parkinson cried," Ron said, moustache curling above his mouth from the foam of the thick wheat beer. "I didn't think the demon had any emotions. Like, at all."

"What was she doing there?" Harry questioned with a lifted up brow. He was sure there was no more unexpected visits listed in his calendar from former Slytherins, but obviously, fate had a funny work ethic. "She's always loitering in the Minsitry even though she is _not_ employed by us. I know," he pointedly looked at Ron who was about to interrupt him with unnecessary scheming, "I've _checked_ in the records."

"She just wanted a potion recipe," the others, hardly concealing their curiosity, promptly turned towards Neville who had his eyes firmly set on his beverage. "Anyway, I think Parkinson's not half bad – or at least, she's decent," Neville allowed which met with no slight amount of confusion from the others. "I mean, people can change," he hastily added, trying to defend himself, even before the others could have lashed an attack and completely _destroyed_ his gentle believes in all the good. "Look at Astoria! Ron still does not think that she has a good bone in her skeleton either. And she's quite helpful and—,"

"Excuse me, but one out of the 207 is still too high of chance," Ron shot him with the kind of irritation that only appeared when his ego was endangered.

Harry seemed genuinely surprised by his statement, on the other hand, already used to Ron's sudden outbursts, "How do you know that? The number of bones."

That seemed to dim Ron's foul mood considerably and he reduced himself to playing with his goblet, redness of his fury immediately melting away from his face. "I dated _her_. Of course I know something like this." He paled so much, resembling the white of the wall that even his freckles were noticeable in the dim lights. For long moments, he contemplated whether to ask, "Have you heard anything new of her?"

"You know, after all these years you should really _try_ and _talk with her_ ," Harry chided, the irony not lost on him. He was still asking after Ginny through Ron after half a year, too afraid to have a conversation with his former love. Maybe that's why he ended up answering Ron against all odds and his contradictory opinion. "Anyway, she's working on something. It'll be hard even for her, but she has help, I… think, at least."

Neville nodded at that, "Well, yes, she does. She Floo-called me yesterday," he added as a way of explanation, not ready to face with Ron's disappointed baby blue eyes. "Told me she will have Malfoy as funder of her new project. Though she assured me I shouldn't tell you…"

"I already know about it," Harry confessed, watching the foam slowly bubble away from his goblet. "She already talked to me about this, had me read all the damned papers to convince me that there's nothing to worry about, as if I hadn't enough readings to do nowadays," he rolled his eyes, his hand casually sliding in the pocket of his baggy trench coat.

"How come?" Ron feigned disinterest. No one really took the bait. "Malfoy, really?"

"They are not bad together," Harry offered, not even knowing why. It was already more of the alcohol speaking than the respected auror, "They had a brunch today. Hermione said he would be an ally."

"Oh, then good for her," Ron sniffed, obviously insulted by the very notion, but deciding to rather shepherd the topic of the conversation to a completely different direction. He had no wish to talk about his ex-girlfriend, even though he _kind of_ had. "Man, how I need a date."

"I'd pay for you to ask Astoria out," Neville returned with a subdued grin of his own, clearly amused by his idea, though it was neither _brilliant_ or _plausible_ , like, at all.

"Maybe you should do it," Ron shot back, his scowl back in place as he continued to slurp his drink. The drunkenness might have kicked in too soon for the redhead as he became more and more honest as the time passed. "She's been giving you moony eyes."

Neville rolled his eyes so intensely that he nearly rolled himself down off his beaten-up barstool with it.

"And what about Harry's new assistant?" he asked in the end, noticing that no one paid attention to his attempted theatrics. Oh well, it was understandable that he wasn't on the same level with Parkinson in it. Yet.

"Glacier?" Harry questioned, by now, hardly able to keep himself upright without leaning to the worn door frame for longer periods of time.

"Her name sounds nice. _Exotic_ ," Ron contributed, trying hard to forget about Hermione's mere existence. Besides, the thought of change and a date didn't sound so bad. After all, his ex was on the other side of the UK gallivanting away with their former enemy.

"Wouldn't advice. She's Aurora Sinistra's daughter and she's just graduated from Uagadou last year. If anything, she's too young."

"Four years is next to nothing," Neville claimed absent-mindedly, asking for yet another round from Madame Rosmerta. Each of the wizards greeted the refill warm-heartedly. "Oh god, we're getting old. Next time around, you will be sending your kids to Hogwarts and I'll be their teacher. Merlin that does sound terrible…"

Neither of them noticed how Harry's mood slumped suddenly, like a snowman would in African heat. He put his goblet down on the counter, his appetite for a hazy night suddenly evaporating into thin air. "Yes, right Neville," he added but the other two were long over that train of thought. They were brainstorming – quite hard, in the way that might have even damaged their brain cells – if catnip would work on McGonagall or if she were to be exposed to the plant, would she be able to purr.

It wasn't really hard to decide he didn't want that particular picture engraved in his mind of his former professor so Harry slid some heavy coins to the Madame who gave him a grateful smile seeing his generous tip. He nodded to her gratefully and with that, he took his leave.

The two, should be responsible teacher material drunkards, didn't even notice him leaving. But Harry thought it was okay. It was kind of depressing, but it was okay at the end of the day.

* * *

 _After this chapter I don't know which woman (Hermione / Pansy /Narcissa) has the most big dick energy. I'm not sorry for making them strong women, so I certainly hope you'll like their actions and the plot I'm preparing for each of them. Anyway, thank you for reading! Also, look out for Dark Chocolate, incoming a Hansy one-shot ((Merman AU)), in the next few days. I hope you're enjoying this story! Do not be afraid to show your love to me (note: review box does exist and it's curretnly hella empty);)_


	7. Christopher Robin

**Chapter VI: Christopher Robin**

 _(about curiousity, a signet ring, and an unsolved puzzle)_

* * *

He looked worse for wear now, or more likely, similar to how he was during their sixth year, scared and desperate. The black bags under his dead, grey eyes made him look older than the mere twenty-three he was, but two sleepless nights are bound to do that to a person, right?

Draco Malfoy was hardly able to keep himself awake as he stood in her doorway, blinking slowly and tiredly. The long forgotten signs of insomnia and stress yet again appeared on his face, distorting his otherwise handsome features to something that would make anyone _worry_.

And when did she see him last? A day ago?

It just seemed... strange, to put it simply. He was proudly peacocking through Harry's auror office and the French bakery just yesterday!

However, after reading today's newspaper – Lucius hospitalization due to a _curious_ accident surprisingly didn't make the headlines, but the attempt on his life sure did – she kind of understood what had dragged the young heir down so deep under the weather. Anyone would worry for their fathers even if said father was an utter scum of a Death Eater.

"Granger," he offhandedly greeted her, his eyes unfocused and squinting at her as she twirled around for her wand. As swift as her movements were, he had probably seen at least three versions of her.

"Malfoy," she nodded to him as a way to sign that _yes_ , she had noticed him, and _yes_ , she was not really interested in small talk, _thank you very much_. Meanwhile she flicked her wrist elegantly to let down her wards, and with that, give him a free pass into her home. "Can you give me some of your blood?" she blurted out, and to his confused look and tilted head, she felt obliged to explain, "I'm gonna add it into the wards so you could apparate inside next time."

 _Next time_ , hah. It was weird to even think that from now one, he would be just as usual of a house guest as Harry was, in of case accepting her terms of cooperation for _their_ research.

"Archaic," he sniffed haughtily while cutting his palm up with a knife he seemed to get out of nowhere. Well, it seemed nowhere only, if Hermione hadn't known well enough that hidden pockets were a given with the type of robes he currently wore. "Feels like home, actually. I like it."

"Believe me, I'm not doing it for your satisfaction," she scrunched up her nose in irritation not knowing how else to react to Draco Malfoy attempting to crack a joke in her presence _. Because that was supposed to be a joke, right?_

The unsaid words of _but for my own safety_ kept rolling inside Hermione's head as she did the procedure, with Draco too, being aware of them, but both of them simply decided to rather ignore those very words out of convenience.

So that's how Draco Malfoy attempted to crack yet another joke, not willing to suffer under the effects of silence.

"Sure, sure, whatever let's you sleep through the nights," And it was just as effective as the other one.

If it were other women, they would have already at least giggled on his humour, but Granger didn't even let a smile slip on her lips, not one of conceitedness nor one of giddiness. She was utterly in business mood, slightly on the edge (well, with the full moon being tomorrow, what did you expect from a normal and perfectly healthy werewolf?) and she was most certainly, not used to his company.

And it showed.

"Am I taking the Vow now?" he asked in the end, not even caring to be embarrassed by his failed ventures. And he was obviously not bothering to hide the impatience in his voice, either. "I have places to be."

" _We_ ," she corrected swiftly just like a swot she were as she used his blood to sear it into her doorframe. The process emitted a sizzling sound and a bit of heat that made Hermione shiver. With her enhanced senses, it was natural that she found a bit of appreciation from this minor thing. "We are taking it. There is a slight difference between yours and mine."

"Why?" he questioned and strode into her home. Not like a peacock he decided to go by yesterday morning, but he still looked pretty regal. He made a quick study of how big of a mess her home truly was – books and documents thrown everywhere, opened inkpots and quills on every flat surface and to top it all, it was practically impossible to have a proper cup of tea on the dining table. The coffee table was no better. "I thought only my life is endangered if breaking it." He said in the end, choosing to politely not mention how utterly revolting he found her house.

Unbeknown to him, his features and scrunched up nose said all that was to be said. But, she too, did not comment, not willing to risk a fight in between them.

"I'm not an idiot Malfoy," she shut the door with a loud bang as she stalked after him. He was already half-way in the living room, _he might as well just go in there_ , she thought, slightly irked by his behaviour. "You wanted part in it, then, it shall be like that, you will get an _equal_ part of this mess of a work. I need you to swear to secrecy, you cannot speak about this research to anyone. So I'm taking the Vow with you."

"Am I binding my life to yours?" he asked as if this detail had whatsoever no meaning to his bigoted person. _But of course it was_ – Hermione reasoned to herself – _he is just not showing it_ , with being a _Malfoy_ and _a sole heir_ and all that _crap, he_ most probably _couldn't show it_.

"It's going to go both ways, remember? That's how it is _fair_. Although, on the second thought, fairness is a word you most probably are not familiar with," she let herself have that one jab, even though she felt slightly put out by the dirty look he shot towards her, signing her that he had clearly understood the meaning behind her cruel words. "I'm also binding my life to yours to keep the secrets I'm about to share with you."

"Okay," was the only answer she was given.

If she hadn't been confused before by this version of Draco Malfoy (the aloof, messy and insomniac) that she hadn't encountered with since the end of the war and which looked nothing like the always-oh-so-put-together Draco Malfoy (the ladies' man, the slightly alcoholic, overachieving businessman) she got to know from the Prophet headlines, now she most certainly was.

"Just okay?" she asked sharply, one of her brows automatically lifting with the question. It was strange – considering that she had already put him into a category in her head. He always seemed to be the kind of man who loved to _receive_ and expected to _receive_ before he was ready just to consider _giving_.

So of course she had her doubts!

"I've bound my life to worse cause, remember?" he shot her back, pointedly looking at his left forearm while simply stating this as if it never affected their lives and decisions. As if the war didn't take its toll on him, too.

She was also very sure it wasn't the bomb he would have dropped in their conversation so carelessly if he weren't so strained and burdened by the weight of the last couple of days.

Hermione gulped, unsure of her next step "Right," she sat down beside him. It felt very much like that the only safe topic for the two of them, was business. "Right. Then we should start," she said with finality, handing him a paper she had formerly drafted down their vows and she conjured from seemingly out of the thin air. "I believe it's to your satisfaction and you won't require a lawyer to read this out for you."

"Fuck you Granger," he cursed with the ease of familiarity (because yes, bickering was something they both excelled at) and took away the crumpled parchment, his bloodshot eyes eagerly running through the details.

… _swear to only reveal secrets between myself and Hermione Jean Granger after consulting with her, don't indicate the existence of the research in any form or word… Entitled to her documents and the research about Test Subject Nr. One… When in interrogation, I am to only answer two people: Harry James Potter and Hermione Jean Granger…_

"Interrogation, Granger?" he quipped, reading through it once more, and in the end, looking up into her curious, chocolate eyes, "Oh, I understand," he let a smug smile curl up his lips, seemingly finding his spirit as he literally radiated superiority, realizing, he finally had something over her head, hanging from his hands like Damocles' swords, ready to slice her throat and end her right now and here. "Your dear research is not Ministry approved, am I right?"

He wasn't the least surprised when he found her wand pressed to his throat, her expressive eyes flashing with unrestrained anger and the brown ringlets of her hair cackling from her uncontrollable magic. Her movements seemed to be fuelled by adrenalin and by the feeling of being threatened by him figuring her little, dirty secret out; there was otherwise no explanation why she could have moved without him actually _seeing_ it happen in such close quarters.

"I can and I will end you Malfoy, should the need arise," she hissed like an animal ready for attack, her fury distorting her otherwise delicate features, "Do not forget that before opening your mouth again."

"Yes, yes," he said, uncharacteristically amused with a half-smile comfortably sitting on his lips, his hands moving faster than she had expected them to. He managed to throw her wand over her shoulder with an abrupt movement and while she was occupied by watching it fly away from her, he simply used his bigger body and weight to push her down in the sea of her outrageous, mismatched cushions, his hands gripping hers and paralyzing her as he squeezed them in between their bodies.

Hermione grimaced. Damn that silver ring (of course it couldn't have been gold) on his finger. It was already heating up against her skin!

Well, any other witch, but Hermione, would have panicked in this situation. But as it were, she knew she needed to get him off her, fast. However, it would have cost her a secret: if she were to kick him with so much force hat he ended up on the ceiling, he would have obviously realized that something was _not_ _okay_ with her.

And even if he were to take the Vow today, she was just not ready to expose herself so pitifully.

Draco Malfoy might have been – as he so candidly pointed out before – an ex-Death Eater and with it, certainly not an idiot; however, in contrary of his aforementioned attributes, he clearly didn't recognize how little she cared about his intimidation techniques. She was a werewolf for crying out loud – majestic, refused to be controlled and practically brimming with the force of the awaiting full moon. The only real problem for Hermione, was his silver ring.

And thanks to the sting it caused, she was not unaware of her now gold eyes flashed at him.

"But you might care to rethink it, hah," Malfoy said, haughtily, trying to show his superiority. Up close he looked more like a zombie than a peacock – probably that was the reason he was so unaware of Hermione's very being that was not the least affected by him. "Ending me here, or in this case, ending you here, would not be beneficial to the cause of your bleeding, kind heart. Your reaction was enough of a giveaway, anyway," she huffed at that, still miffed at him for being able to figure that particular secret of hers so easily out.

"What are you going to do with your information now?" she barked, but the abrupt feeling of her fangs lengthening chilled her insides. She needed to get a control of herself, calm down and not let her wolf take over or Malfoy would be in possession of more of her secrets he could sell out. That is, if he were to survive.

Then came the heavy silence, the kind of silence that played on Hermione's nerves, like a musician would on a violin. He said nothing, his grey eyes gazing into the nothingness as he thoughtfully mused. It was truly troubling as she was not able to determine what he was thinking, even when he was so insomniac and tired, forgetting his poker face at home.

Then with a shrug, he simply blurted out, "Nothing. I'll take the Vow. You made me too curious," at that point, he looked down at her, his eyes searching her face for answers to questions he hadn't bothered to voice to her – just the way her mind was currently doing the same. Hermione prayed her eyes were back to their normal colour. "Golden Girls and war heroines don't usually go around trumping the government they saved, you know."

 _So that was it_ , she thought. He was willing to bind his life to hers just because of _curiosity_. It seemed whimsical. If not before, she was now sure he went mad in the last two days. He was _insane_. If not that, he must have had some kind of mental default if he was doing it. Just because of _curiosity_.

"Okay," she breathed out heavily, her hands already burnt by the silver ring, not to mention how numb they were from his all of his weight pressing down on her person. If nothing else, at least his body heat was pleasant. "Then would you please get off me?"

He had the decency to _somewhat_ blush over her comment. "Right," he agreed with a little grimace as he awkwardly rolled off of her, their limbs and clothes inevitably tangling into the others'. "Fuck," he stated what both of them were obviously thinking. "Give me a few secs," he said as he attempted to get the parts of her beloved pink sweater out of the detailed sears and hems of his black robe with his long, jewelled fingers.

She sighed. It was going to be a long day. And it was still just half past nine.

* * *

"Mother," he whispered in her ear, waking his dozing mother up as soon as he stepped into the ward. Narcissa nearly jumped at his sudden intrusion, but recognizing the person behind the voice, she weakly slumped back in the chair, her eyes bleary and blinking slowly. "I think you should go home. I can keep watch."

She didn't even disagree with him, and that was a clear enough sign for Draco to know how exhausted she truly was.

However, he didn't fault her, knowing the night she had in the hospital ward. If she had come back a minute later in his father's room and hadn't spotted the assassin who was disguised as a trainee Healer, well, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have taken a single breath as of today.

"Thank you, my boy," she said gently as a goodbye, her voice hoarse and her movements slow and dragging, nothing like the elegance he had learned to expect from her. She floated away on the white aisle like a ghost would on a normal day in the midst of the tombs. "I'll be back in a few hours."

He nodded silently. The door shut behind her with finality, leaving behind melancholy and only Draco, in the company of his demons.

He sighed, looking up towards the ceiling. It felt wrong to watch her leave the room, her retreating back seemed entirely too small and frail. Even though Draco didn't keep record of his mother's eating habits, it didn't take a genius to guess that she hadn't stomached more than a few cups of tea in the last few days. Their elves really had their jobs cut out for them, huh.

Sending a blaming look at his father, he scowled. It really was ridiculous how broken Lucius looked now. He was pale – paler than usual, on the border of being translucent – his otherwise always perfect hair was a tangled mess on his pillows and several needles were sat under his skin, keeping him in one place and probably, with it, in one piece. The most outstanding were his fingers, or rather, the lack of his three fingers: the pinky from his left, the ring and index finger from his right hand.

"You really did get bested, right father?" he mused cruelly, not really knowing how else to keep himself awake and amused in the same time. Draco used his knee as an elbow-rest as he leaned forward, leering at the unmoving body wrapped in the sheets. "It's kinda funny that you still thought you were invincible, however many times life proves you wrong. You said Malfoys will always succeed, but lately, all we do is fuck it up. Ironic."

Not that Draco would have waited for an answer from his unconscious father to his reprimanding speech, but when Potter barrelled into the private ward, he felt a bit betrayed by the spirits. The auror literally came in like a rhino would gallop through the savannah during mating season.

"Your mother didn't know where you were," he blurted out as a greeting, tossing Draco a few official documents. He was clearly not interested in chit-chats, small talk and wasting time. "I asked the hospital staff to alert me when you were back. You took your sweet time, Malfoy."

It was a round-about way of asking where the fuck he went during the crisis with the attempted assassination and the interrogations. Not that Draco felt like answering to that.

"The heck you're doing in here, Potter? It's not a private room to be violated by random Choosen Ones and aurors, you know," he practically growled, mentally not nearly prepared to face his former enemy just yet, when just leaving the other third of the Golden Trio. He should have been allowed a nap before dealing with this mess _, at the very fucking least_.

"No time for your bitching, Malfoy," Harry said hastily, waving his hands carelessly like he wanted to smash flies with his palms. "Read that," he pointed shamelessly on the documents in Draco's lap, "and then, answer a few of my questions."

Even though Draco was hardly able to keep his eyes open, he did oblige to the command of the auror: read the papers he wouldn't have been allowed to read in any other scenario. It was an outright breach of their law, but can someone see Kingsley care? Nah, with being the saviour of the Ministry and the British wizarding world, Potter would survive with a gentle slap on his hand and a _no-no_.

It felt just like in school all over again. Potter, whatever he and his fellows did, never got into too big of trouble and into overly cruel detentions.

With occasionally tutting at the formal and over-emphasized sentences, the blonde wizard ran through the three pages of hand-written report that was fresh enough that the ink haven't yet had the chance to properly dry on it.

"You finally made someone do some work in your department, Potter? _Exhilarating_." Draco commented just for the sake of delivering a jab for the memory of their youth. It wasn't entirely scathing, more like an attempted humour with a sharp edge. "You should skip all these useless front pages. You know, saving the papers, the trees and bettering the world with it…" he suddenly stopped with the free advising service, his eyes running through the same sentence once more. "You found a magical trance on the lost finger? Does that mean the aurors had found my father's rotting fingers?" to the confirming nod, Draco pulled a face. "That's disturbing."

"You got to the important part, though," Potter said excitedly, like a kid would on Christmas morning, and undoubtedly too high on caffeine with his emerald eyes sporting the same brand of dark bags like Draco's did. Potter pulled the papers out of the blonde's grasp, nearly ripping them apart with it. He started gesticulating with the vehemency of a day-old hatchling that just now discovered its wings as he randomly started pointing at paragraphs. "We have found the fingers. However, the magical trance is not in our database. And you know what's interesting? Around his ring finger, were traces of heavy jewellery. Actually, it might have been the same like you have on," he nodded towards his right hand where the Malfoy signet ring sat comfortably. "Did he have something like that?"

"He had one made," Draco said in the end, sceptically, not sure where the other one was going with this. "Never had he taken it off, to my knowledge." Draco stated, looking down on his own in thought, watching the sunlight glint back to him from the silver's carefully wrought surface, "Wait, you haven't found it? The ring?"

"Then it looks like it was stolen," Harry blurted out, chatting away the time without really taking breathes. "We have been through the entire house. One of my aurors even got caught in bobby traps… Wait, what do you mean he had one made? Don't you pureblooded have these made once three hundred years ago or something and then passing it down to the children? Just because Neville had one, kinda like this, and Bill received one from Arthur too, even Parkinson had one on her hand, but I'm not sure. I've only seen her a few times in the Ministry."

Draco sighed, not even listening to the blabbers of the scar-headed, rolling his bloodshot eyes intently at him. Seeing Pansy at the Minsitry? What an absurd notion. "Yes, my father had one made for him. In the end of our fifth year, when he went to Azkaban, that was the only thing that he had it sent me. Not even an explanation. Ever since that, I was the head of the house, so of course I kept the original signet ring on. It has abilities, it cannot be stolen," he educated him impatiently, hoping that his mother would be back in a few hours so that he can go home to sleep today off.

"Then why did he copy it?" Potter asked in confusion, his eyebrows drawn together as he took one more well-thought-out sip from his thermos. It was filled to the brim with black coffee, no doubt.

"Prestige I guess," Draco shrugged, uninterested, not really having thought about this himself. "I just know that the other one is too, Goblin-made. It does nothing spectacular, just a way of him to show off his position."

"So you mean to tell me, that the ring does literally nothing?" Potter questioned once more with his head tilted to the side, glaring dumbly into the white wall in front of him.

"That one, yes. Mine? Nah," Draco answered him in mocking tone, entirely too conceited for his own good.

Harry continued slurping his coffee from the thermos, forgetting about his abilities as a wizard. He could have made his coffee steaming hot with the flick of his wand, but Draco hardly had the energy to be sarcastic. And being helpful was entirely another level, he needed an at least eight-hour-long nap for that.

"And whoever controlled the golem also might have been the one that had a go at your father, Malfoy. And the same person might have also been the one that stole that useless ring." Then Potter's eyes comically widened in realization, his mood back high up with the caffeine level of his system. "What if they thought it was the original? I wouldn't have guessed there were two of them. The guy probably had thought Lucius had the right one, he still kind of has the power to do whatever he wants. No one would think that you have the original… It's a clear enough of a motive, right? Right?"

Draco didn't even have the energy to properly answer him. He leaned back on his uncomfortable chair, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. "Look Potter, if I were Weasley or dare I say, Granger, I would have clapped. Both right now, please theorize elsewhere. I need to keep a watch."

To that, Potter quickly lost his rejuvenated spirit.

"How can you be so… aloof? I'm working for capturing the bastard who had attacked your father." Potter turned on him, seething, with eyes filled with fury and the emerald colour turning to poison green. "You should at least _pretend_ to care."

"Well, then you should better do your job instead of making me suffer," Draco advised scathingly, already done with this day. Being aloof was his coping mechanism. "I promised my mother I will lay low for the time being, but if we end up duelling in St. Mungo's, well, that would not count as laying low. So do me a favour and _leave_ ," he emphasized.

Harry was furious with the conceited bastard, but truly, furious wasn't the right word to describe the emotions he felt. "Oh yes, because you've just decided to play the part of the docile baby boy, hah, Malfoy. Just hope that the guy who was after your father does not figure it out so soon. Because, let me tell you, it's a straight route towards you. And whoever was after him, was willing to injure him. They injured the big, bad Death Eater. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, he is dangerous. I get it. It's sweet that you, at least, _care_. Anyway, not that I haven't been targeted by assassins before," Draco waved his hands carelessly at him, turning his back to the auror in an obvious show of disrespect. "You seem to forget that as former Death Eater, I do not get any protection from your beloved Minsitry," his eyes radiated the kind of poison that would be enough to kill, but he firmly looked to the other direction, not willing to sell himself and his bitterness out. "It's a miracle in itself that there was an investigation put forward for us in this case. But I guess, our money speaks louder than the law."

"I'll be back to interrogate you about that ring," Harry stated with squared shoulders, tired and entirely too fed up with the blonde, eyes blazing and voice firm. After a silent moment of letting his authority crawl under Draco's too pale skin, he left with slamming the private ward's door shut.

At least he was getting closer to solving this case, the auror thought. Or that was what his guts and instincts suggested.

* * *

The next morning, Draco was slightly better than the day before. It was still painfully clear that he lived off on black teas and chocolate croissants for a few days now, but he seemed just a tad bit better off. It might have been because of his curiosity. Or that he was calmed by now, having been done with the Unbreakable Vow.

Whatever it was, he wasn't as aloof and edgy as before.

"Granger," he greeted, appearing in her living room at eight o'clock, sharp.

Hermione Granger was sitting on her sofa, in comfortable, but not in too ridiculous clothing, ready for the day with a tea in hand and pampered up by a bit of make-up. It definitely didn't cake on her face, but it was just enough for someone as professional as Draco to spot. Even witches tended to forget that make-up was for enhancing beauty (if one had any at all) and not for making _something_ out of _nothing_.

That's not how the universe, alchemy, magic or make-up worked.

"Malfoy," she nodded back which wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but still a lot better than how they used to greet each other on Hogwarts' corridors.

"I'm here for the research papers," he said in the end, watching Hermione in interest as she went back to reading, not even showing any form of hospitality towards him. It was like as if she felt comfortable enough with him to calmly turn her back to him, investing her attention to other things.

But obviously, it wasn't trust just yet.

"I know," Hermione replied in her swotty tone that would make even the most vicious spiders climb higher up on the ceiling. Even bugs didn't like to be told off, Draco was sure. "But you shouldn't flaunt them in the Minsitry or anywhere, really," she warned which earned her an eye roll from the blonde. Not that she had shown any sign of noticing it. "Anyone can and will read it and if it lands in the wrong hands we are—!"

"Quit stressing. I understand. We are partners in crime, apparently," Draco said flippantly, not fazed by her conspiracy theories. Yes, even he had a few up his sleeves, but someone reading her research papers was definitely not one. Who had the time? Well, who indeed, beside him. "Just give me a Pepper-up potion or something and I'll start reading it through. Finding your mistakes and connecting the dots," he waved her down when she was about to interrupt him, "Oh, well, it's much like Astronomy. But do not worry, thanks to my genes I can assure you, the science of the stars is in fact, flowing in my blood."

She nodded, not even attempting to listen to his babblers by then, absently passing him a vial that she'd just _accioed._ She sat back on her enormous sofa that had books, parchments and charts thrown all over it, while pointing at the burgundy armchair on her right, indicating where he should sit.

The thick column of parchment filled out by charts, datas and _pure_ research, hand-written, wrinkled and mug-spotted, was already waiting for Draco on that said, obnoxiously burgundy armchair.

Granger kept half of her eyes on him as he picked it up and started delving into it, his eyes quickly running through paragraphs and drinking in the information quickly enough that made even the werewolf slightly amazed. No wonder he was always just one place behind her in every of their classes.

"Who's Christopher Robin?" was the first question that left this mouth upon finishing reading the first page, already turning to the second one so hurriedly that he nearly tore into the delicate, well-worn parchment.

Hermione shot him a confused glance, "Who?"

To that, Draco lifted his head up from the neatly written paragraphs to meet his gaze with hers, sharing her sentiment. "That's what I would like to know. Text Subject Nr. One: Christopher Robin, that states it as clear as the day," he said, observing her reaction with hawk-like eyes. The hardly noticeable widening of her soft, chocolate eyes and the slight _O_ her mouth formed in realization. It was strange for the one and only Hermione Granger to be so… lightheaded and not prepared to any possible come-out. "But the name… is off. Never heard something like this," he shot her a searching glance once more, but her former oh-so-telltale face showed nothing, but disinterest. As if Draco was ignored by her, or maybe, more like tolerated, but definitely not someone deserving of her attention. So it definitely wasn't rust, after all. "Are you sure that's his real name? Not made up?" he asked once more.

The silence held on longer with Granger comfortably sipping her murky tea, her infamous brain working overtime to produce him a reasonable answer, no doubt.

"I call him however he wants to be called. I think… he didn't want to have his identity leaked to the grand public. I'm just… lucky, that I managed to get him into cooperation." She confessed in the end with a delicate shrug of her shoulder, her chocolate eyes not entirely meeting Draco's.

He got the feeling that something was terribly _off_ about her lab rat.

"So you have no idea who he really is, yes Granger?" he countered, still trying to crack the puzzle that were Granger and spontaneous, illegal research program. It was a tough one, he admitted, even though puzzles should have been easy to solve.

"Just keep reading," Granger suggested offhandedly, letting her straight back rest against the soft material of her cushions and dodging his question effectively. "Skip whatever you already know about werewolves. We haven't the entire day."

He rolled his eyes, not pressing the matter that was Christopher Robin any more. For today, at least.

"That, I will," he said firmly, his eyes already running through the sentences with the speed of the lightning. He flipped to page three in a frenzy, biting his lip hungrily, obviously amazed by her detailed work.

After long minutes with Hermione sipping her aconitum tea the blonde suddenly blurted out in a bit of shock, but mostly in surprise: "How did you measure the strength? I mean, the force of their grips, their… what? Right hook? And kicks? And their bites? Merlin Granger, that's more information than Newt Scamander ever managed to get!"

He reminded Hermione to buzzing bee in search of blossoming flowers, annoying everyone with its humming. It was definitely a new side of the peacock Draco Malfoy she hasn't yet met, but was welcome to discover.

"Newt had next to no interest in werewolves, you know," she dismissed his back-handed compliments simply, but even she couldn't deny that she felt a bit fuzzy after his acknowledgements. "But yes, I like to be throughout."

"But still, 276 pounds for bite force? They could tear us…" He paid no mind to her reply as he continued reading, his gray eyes locked on the hand-drawn and colour-coded charts.

"Tear people apart, yes." Hermione parroted much like a nanny would to a six-year-old. His eagerness for learning and understanding was strange to witness, to say the very least.

"And caffeine… they get high on it? Werewolves can get high on caffeine? That's unusual. And they are sensitive to their blood sugar? That's insane, Granger. Does that mean a werewolf would need to keep to a diet of some kind? Sugar-free and coffee-free?"

Well, yes, when _you were a werewolf yourself, you obviously discover these things_ , Hermione thought scornfully, but she didn't let it show on her face. She, instead, answered calmly to all of his questions that just kept on coming.

"Well, these people," she refused to call her race animals or magical creatures, because werewolves were intellectually on the same level with humans and they still had a human hearts, full of feelings, "mostly eat gluten-free. But werewolves are not as sensitive to sugar and alcohol in general like dogs or normal wolves are. But caffeine, it makes them go straight up crazy."

"That's intriguing." Draco nodded along, his interest obviously piqued by the materials and documents Hermione had provided for him, his brain speedily working in the information. He even forgot about his insomnia by that point, but it also might have been the Pepper-up. "Can you also measure the bite in human form?"

"I measured it in human form," Granger dismissed, to which, Draco slightly slumped. "It would have been… too dangerous to do it when Christopher was under the effect of the full moon. But I suspect, the value would, at least, double."

"Right," he nodded once, liking the idea of the challenge. Maybe, with the right preparations, they would be able to get an accurate number from their lab rat. "Any other fact that I might not know but it is in here?"

"Page seventeen, about their behaviour," she helped him out, her arms comfortably hugging her body as she watched him slump back in her burgundy armchair, fingers tapping on his knee and his face relaxed.

It was weird to see him so amazed, really. Hermione was far too used to his haughty expressions, grimaces, wrinkled nose, foul language and acidic comebacks. But now, his eyes were shining with excitement and with the hunger to learn and embrace more facts about wolves and her entire work. He looked positively jolly in his own, aloof way, like a first year pureblooded hatchling in Hogwarts would at the start of their first term, not ready to confess how overjoyed he was.

And Hermione would have lied if she said it wasn't _somewhat_ endearing.

"Possessive about food, that I expected. They are said to be possessive and aggressive. Not about life partners, huh? That's peculiar. Guarding what's important to them. Right, that one is a given. What if said partner wasn't that important to Christopher? Just saying," he rambled, not noticing how Hermione's widened to an absurd size. They might have been as big as tennis balls. "Heightened senses. If threatened, go for violence," he summed up the page, repeating the facts again and again to have it properly etched in his brain. "That's more what we had in the Hogwarts library."

"Why did you look up werewolves in Hogwarts?" she inquired quickly, desperate to change the topic before he had noticed that something was not quite all right. Hermione desperately wanted to not think about her relationship with Ron right now.

"You weren't the only one that realized what Professor Lupin was. He always disappeared after full moons for a few days. At first, my father gave me a backhanded comment on it and then, well, the Prophet confirmed my suspicion during the summer holiday," he shrugged languidly, his eyes still glued to the paper as he continued to flip the neatly arranged pages around.

"That's about it, right," Hermione confessed, fighting the urge to take away her papers from him. He wasn't an idiot, he could put two and two together. The danger of someone finding out her more important secret loomed closer and she couldn't exactly protect herself against it now. If he had noticed Remus disappearing at age thirteen (just like she did), he would notice her doing the same for sure. Right?

She tried to control the trembles in her voice as she continued, "However, Remus hid most of the books he found on werewolves during his years in Hogwarts. He wanted to make sure that his secrets remain well-protected." _Just the way I want it, too_ , she thought bitterly, her fingers fidgeting.

She tried not to hiss when touching the fresh burn mark on her skin that his silver ring caused just yesterday.

"I need a copy of these," Draco suddenly exclaimed, with that being more like a demand than an ask for permission. However, Hermione currently didn't have the energy to argue with the blonde wizard. "Anything else? Mate to the lone wolf scenario that writers like to romanticize?" he asked in the end, sliding the neatly arranged papers under his robes after not hearing any word of objection.

"Nah, nothing about it as of yet. Christopher," she nearly cringed as she said the name again, "didn't experience any of those things yet. No right out attraction, no too intense sexual tension or going after a scent just because his wolf told him so. Or, as I imagined, that would be the logical things a werewolf would experience if they had the task of finding their mate out in the great wide somewhere."

"Must be a joy quizzing someone about these things," he grimaced, thinking about the awkwardness that would come with it. "Will I meet with him?" he pried offhandedly, as if he weren't that curious, but Hermione easily picked up on his bluff.

"Yes of course," she nodded. "Just not today. It's the night of the full moon, after all," she said, turning toward the enormous window behind them. It wasn't late now per say, just about midday.

"Right," was all what he said, his eyes examining Hermione in the same way as they did with the papers, charts and datas, searching, sharp and curious.

Hermione sighed, pretending not to notice his prodding stare.

* * *

 _So, for the bite force thingy, I did my research. With knowing that an avarage human would be able to bite 171 lbs (77 kgs), and a nothern wolves around 406 lbs (184 kgs) (yes, thank you very much, national geographic) for a defensive bite, I wanted something in-between for a werewolf in human form. That's how I ended ip with 276 lbs (125 kgs) and in wolf form, 551 lbs (250 kgs). I just think it's something interesting that I ended up googling for two hours. I didn't want to overpower werewolves with them biting like 2500 lbs (1134 kgs), because that falls in the category of salt water crocodiles. (And wolves have other things to attack with, like claws and the force of the pack, not just their jaws)_

 _I hope you liked this chapter! Please share your thoughts about this story, I'm terribly curious what you think about how their research is going. Also, as I'm in my senior year (12. year, last year, whatever) and with school starting on this Monday, I don't know how I will be able to write just yet. I'll try my best!_


	8. Regret

**Chapter VII: Regret**

 _(about English breakfasts, admonishments and magical theories)_

* * *

"You only have six eggs?" Harry asked from inside of her messy kitchen, digging through her magic-powered fridge in dismay, the bin beside him filled to the brim by now as he kept throwing the pre-packed food in it, one by one. Half of her food supplies were on the verge of rotting away, if not already trying to crawl away in the lower cases, anyway. "And like… tomatoes? Not even a slice of bread?"

"I'm sorry," was all she said, continuously looking down, too afraid to look Harry in the eyes. She knew that regularly eating out was not good, but it was easier than cooking a six course meal for herself that could potentially satisfy her wolf's irregular cravings. Junk food was also cheaper than fresh meat from the market. "I hadn't the time, lately," she added meekly, ducking her head down, both of them easily picking up on the lie in her words.

She rather bowed down to take a sip from the mug in her hands, but she failed miserably, with her fingers slipping down on the ceramics. Her beloved, loyal mug had a lovely meeting with the kitchen floor. It shattered into tiny pieces.

Harry abruptly stopped fiddling in her fridge at the loud noise, "Do not fret," he sighed and _scourgified_ the mess she had made with her de-caffeinated tea. "I'll get you some groceries and after that, we are having a full-on English breakfast. I promise," he said much like he was talking to little, innocent Teddy Lupin and not to the war veteran werewolf currently curled up in the kitchen.

"Thank you," Hermione told to the floor, too ashamed to look up until she heard him apparate away. Only then, did she move, securing the hastily thrown, cigar-smelling trench coat over her body to entirely cover her naked, pale, marred skin. It wasn't something Harry hadn't seen before for sure, (well, during the war, the both of them had bigger issues than mere nakedness,) but Hermione still preferred herself covered up, trying to preserve what little dignity she had after the night she'd had.

It was sheer luck that Harry came by, this very morning. He usually did so after a full moon just to check-in on her and then laugh off his concerns with a cigarette, but this time, she really was grateful for his half-expected visitation.

After this particular transformation, she was hardly able to move her little finger, not to mention drag herself back into her bedroom from the middle of the forest. She didn't even know how Harry managed to find her without a trailing spell! She felt small, alone and very exposed as she tried to keep herself together, laying on the half-lit, cold and cruel forest floor.

Her animalistic instincts were roaring within her head, messing with her brain and urging her to get back to her shelter, where she knew it was _safe_. Horror was in the middle of creeping up on her back, while she was hyperventilating and in the middle of a seizure, helplessly suffering from the drawbacks of the aconitum.

Getting herself together would have been time-consuming, undoubtedly painful and a very humiliating experience for someone as proud and strong as Hermione was. She was dizzy, her head felt like exploding and every tissue in her muscles felt like they were screeching, as if doing it as a revenge for her idiotism.

But with being overdosed with aconitum and having all the 207 bones in your body broken twice in the course of twelve hours, what did a werewolf _really_ expect? She already knew the withdrawal would be hellish and that she needed to be careful with the herbs. She needed to keep herself focused next time.

But somehow, during her treatment, she lost focus.

She was naked, freezing, dirty and probably quite smelly when Harry arrived to save the day. He crouched down beside her without a second thought, his face blank while his eyes were engulfed by worry, but still, all he did was to tell her a simple, " _You're getting more irresponsible, Hermione_ ," covered her up with his enormous trench coat and then, lifted her broken, curled up body up from the cold, wet soil.

Just during the way back to her house did Hermione realize how big of an idiot she really was – she right out forgot about the horrendous amount of calories and body fat that the change _always_ burnt away. She always lost ten pounds of her weight _at the very least_ after a transformation. _Always_!

And still, she managed to overlook it, thinking she tasted victory on her tongue with making aconitum out to be her personal break-through. She saw reason to continue with herb as in the last few days, her system got used to the dosed tea and she felt stronger and stronger. Turned out, she set herself back to the start line… spiced by some awaiting nights of suffering. How pathetic, really.

And against all odds, she still dared calling herself a scientist and a former Unspeakable! She had researched spells, potions, studied dark artefacts and revised several laws of the magical world in the matter of four mere years, improving their world! And she forgot about the consequences of her own change! It was ridiculous, truly.

No wonder she felt ashamed and angered, furious, even. She was nothing but a big fool.

At least there was something positive in last night beside the disastrous effect the aconitum pulled on her body. She didn't do anything scandalous in wolf form and that counted as a win for Hermione. However, in all truthfulness, it was mostly because she wasn't able to lift herself up on her four legs. And after twelve hours of lying in one place, exposed to any dangers the magical forests could contain, she simply turned back to being a human: tired, broken, weak, scared and ready to cry her eyes out.

"All right," Harry came back with two bags of groceries and a loud pop that shook Hermione out of her reverie. Even though the initial surprise at the sudden intrusion, she still continued to pointedly avoid Harry's worried, emerald eyes, bloodshot and tired from the plus hours he pulled in the Ministry. "I have everything."

And then without further ado, he turned back to the stove, cracking eggs over the pan, mixing pancake batter on the counter and heating up the frozen sausages and bacon stripes from the bottom of her fridge than he deemed edible.

Their companionable silence wasn't uncomfortable for them, but it wasn't something that fit over their usual dynamics as people tended to get used to habits after some wars and living half their lives together. And with both of them being practically orphaned, spending time together seemed to be the best way for them to still enjoy some form of the long-forgotten feel of family. It was simple, really. Harry liked to sometimes take long drags from his cigarettes, complaining about the legal procedures while Hermione brewed tea or got burrowed into a fluffy blankets. There were times when she was sharing data about her research and there were times when they just felt like _whiskey_ and they went for it.

This time, they obviously didn't go _whiskey_.

Hermione was effectively shook out of her trance and abandoned studying the enticing pattern of her linoleum when Harry put a tray packed with delicious food to the brim in front of her.

"You're not having any?" she questioned softly, her voice humming with gentleness as she was trying hard not to drool from the lovely sight in front of her. Before, she hadn't even realized how hungry she truly was.

"I'll have something during work," Harry shrugged.

"Liar," Hermione easily countered.

He just shook his head while placing a fork in her right hand, gently like she was a china doll, able to crack from the touch of feathers. And she still hissed lightly — after having even her phalanxes broken and rebuilt twice so far in the last twenty-four hours, holding something wasn't one of the most comfortable things in the world.

"You need the food more," Harry said with finality in his voice, her reaction seeming to be enough of conviction for him to remain starved.

Hermione meekly nodded, with her wild, dirty curls bobbing with her head. She delved into it with eagerness, wolfing down the spicy scrambled eggs with the warm, greasy bacon stripes in the first two minutes. Just after that did she stop for a big gulp of orange juice Harry _accioed_ there literally a moment before.

"Thank you Harry," she murmured as she violently stabbed a sausage with her fork. She didn't care how big of a mess she made of herself of how un-ladylike she ate at this very specific moment or how she must have reminded Harry of Ron. That was usually the redhead's method of having any form of meal – getting everything in his stomach, the shorter the time was, always the better. Hermione used to be repulsed by it, but as it were the given situation, she simply couldn't be more careless.

"Nah," Harry dismissed, sipping his black coffee from the thermos that seemed to be constantly attached to his hips somehow. "I'm just glad I came by."

"Right," Hermione said while getting to the grilled mushrooms. She shovelled them into her mouth vigorously. "What's up with work, anyway?" she asked, her mouth half-full, desperately trying to change the topic, conveniently pretending to not understand his former comment. Now, even chewing hurt a bit. "Still hooked on the Lucius Malfoy case?"

To that, Harry sighed, deep and long, like an old man would in a lazy winter morning, and that was how she knew she succeeded in her mission. "You can't imagine what's going on. It's terrible. Exhausting, really," he confessed. Hermione was quite sure he hadn't been sleeping properly the last week.

It was purely the matter of days still he ended up on her couch.

"Let me guess," she had a caramelized onion half-way out of her mouth, but she didn't seem to notice, as she studied him with sharp eyes, her wits seemingly rejuvenated by the thousands of calories she had just consumed. "Kingsley is kinda biased if it's about Death Eaters, right?"

"Not _that_ openly," Harry said in the end, still having a great deal of respect for the older man. He absently nicked a pancake away from Hermione's stack that was dripping with maple syrup. He didn't even have the energy to react to the threatening growl that escaped from Hermione's mouth. "But yes. I can't exactly grill the witch on the assassination attempt properly. I can't regulate it when the bitch knows her life worths more than Lucius Malfoy's."

"Must be a joy," Hermione said, finally moving on to the dessert, the deep growl still noticeable in her voice. "Sorry. My wolf does not like to share," she explained, but Harry just waved it off, already knowing this full well. She felt a tad bit embarrassed by her animalistic possessiveness and fully glad by how accepting Harry was towards her.

"'Is 'right. How did it go with the son?" he asked in the end, still nibbling on his sole piece of pancake.

"Pretty good," she answered, humming in delight from the sweet taste on her tongue. Though she couldn't eat more than three pieces of pancake (otherwise she would get into a sugar-induced coma,) but she sure treasured the delicacy melting in her mouth. "Though he figured out that the research is not exactly… legal," at that, she pulled a face.

"He figured that out in two days?"

"Well, practically in the first twenty minutes," Hermione corrected flippantly, slightly bothered by how amazed Harry looked at this new information. She felt the need to tamper his wonder down a tad bit. "But I messed the Vows's script up. I looked over a tiny detail that caught his eyes. The word _interrogation_ gave away more than intended."

"I see," Harry said in the end, agreeing to Hermione's explanation, but still, not really knowing what else to say. "Did he get through your papers?"

Hermione huffed at that, thinking back Draco's rambling and spontaneous pop-quiz he bombarded her with, "Of course he did! — through the summary I wrote a few weeks ago, I didn't give him the whole stuff. He was right out hooked on it." To Harry's unbelieving look, she continued with confirmation, enjoying the feel of satisfaction. "I'm not lying. I don't know if it is genetically possible for him to be amazed, but I think, he was interested in the project."

Harry nodded silently to that, digesting the information while trying to imagine a Malfoy that gave something away with their facial muscles. When he was still clueless what to do with the visual imaginary, he decided to ask: "Did you tell him about that damned plant?" But all Harry received was Hermione yet again, looking down, like a guilty puppy would after destroying their owner's shoes. "Oh, so that's a no."

Hermione fuelled by her the turmoil of emotions, regret and humiliation, felt the need to properly explain, "Harry, look, I know now that the aconitum was a bad idea. I thought about it so long, but…"

"But you never understood until you couldn't even curl your toes, right?" he cut her off sharply, his anger suddenly showing with the ferocity he shot her down. "I wasn't kidding when I said you are getting more irresponsible. You are clearly not thinking how you _should_ be. You are getting…"

"Desperate?" she asked with an edge to her voice, a new kind of fire burning up in her eyes. She was more eager than ever to let out some steam and a fight seemed promising.

Harry, not taking the bait, nodded and continued calmly, however his eyes still seemed to flash with unrestrained fury. "Yes, desperate. Or obsessed. Take your pick."

The werewolf's narrowed eyes that flashed with golden did nothing to Harry's conscience. Their oppositions seemed to fight a kind of silent battle that made the air cackle beside them from their powerful magic as they continued looking in each other's eyes. Their emotions were obviously on the verge of breaking their controls.

In the end, it was Harry that yielded after long, long minutes.

"What else can you try?" he asked in the end while Hermione chose to rather pay all her attention to the food. It was easier that way.

"Beside the tea and the silver? I don't really have other ideas, well, or like only, modifying Wolfsbane. But that's still something not a lot of people can afford – and if I go for more common ingredients, it would tamper with its effectiveness. So it would be a tad bit pointless," she summed it up, taking a big gulp of orange juice in the end.

"Isn't there any alternatives?" Harry asked. "Exorcism?"

She sadly shook her head, "Exorcism Harry, really?" she pulled a face in there, "What twenty-first century priest would not laugh in my face if I told him I was a muggle turned witch turned werewolf? In the middle ages, maybe it was plausible, but we are writing another timeline entirely. I'm not interested in frauds. And I'm certainly not planning to visit the Pope."

She reached for a blueberry muffin in her disappointment.

"I've tried herbs, poisons and potions, spells and ancient tricks," she sighed in the end, taking a bite from the top of the cup cake. "Maybe lycanthropy is something I need to study from another angle, and find an unusual perspective of the things. Rethinking might do wonders," she mused to herself, tilting her head to the side.

"What branches of magic have you not tried out?" Harry shot at her, deeply in though as he knotted his brows together, not even offended by how fast she shot his idea down. Thinking about it, it really did seem ridiculous.

"Well, alchemy, obviously, but it is something only the most professionals can do and understand. It's half-way in between magic and Chemistry, after all. I don't have the proper materials and books for succeeding. Also, astronomy really feels like the wrong path. Or at least, according to my animalistic instincts. And it's like divination, what would I gain from knowing how to write horoscopes or seeing the future? Both of us know that it's just… of no use to me right now."

"And you know…," Harry started toying with the tablecloth, "what about the dark arts?"

For a moment, Hermione could even hear the heart beats of both of them. She gulped, anxiously.

"I actually have… no idea what you mean," she mumbled in the end, the blueberry muffin forgotten in her hands. "I never even looked it up. Or well, the Hogwarts library wouldn't show me those tomes. Remus did a good job with hiding the werewolf books…"

"So you have thought about it!" Harry accused her, his eyes narrowed to curious slits.

"Of course I did, Harry," she snapped with an eye roll, exasperated with his attempted mind-games. He must do better with intimidating criminals, otherwise she had no idea how he survived in his profession. "At this point, after years of research and experimenting, of course I tried everything that I could think about!"

"But dark arts?" he persistently continued on quizzing her with eyes narrowed to slits and Hermione slumped back in her chair, her eyes finding a ceiling in a silent prayer.

"Is only available for pureblood families. The books that have the kind of knowledge that could of use to me, are strictly monitored in the Ministry. And I don't have time for another interrogation like with the aconitum papers and snooping is out of the question. Today's wizarding generations are just not entitled to those spellsworks and potions," she said bitterly, the papers she had found under the Department of Mysteries playing in front of her eyes. She could still quote it the word by word, as clear as the day. The lost knowledge really irritated her, mostly because she was considered not enough to acquire it. "The dark arts were something I couldn't reach Harry. And that's part of it why I—,"

"Why you hired Malfoy," he said suddenly as realization stuck him, eyes wide and searching his browns. She seemed genuinely concerned by his reaction. "It wasn't only about the funds, right?" Harry questioned.

"Well, at first, yes, it was _just_ about the funds," she confessed, looking anywhere but at her friend. "Then Malfoy wanted to be part of the research and he started stating his qualities so I would be tempted to go for the opportunity he offered. It was plain manipulation, but it worked in his favour in the end.

"Then, after two days, it simply just clicked: the Malfoy family has the third biggest library in Wizarding Britain. And I'm sure they didn't let the Minsitry get everything, _especially_ not the books with the dark arts inside. That valuable knowledge would have been lost courtesy to your aurors, never to be found again," at that, she sent him an accusing look, enjoying the little appearing signs of guilt on Harry's face. "And you still cannot tell me that the Malfoys had no history with dark arts. So, the books are there — I just need to get Malfoy to give those to me for a few short months," at that, she nodded, satisfied by her master plan.

Harry, still digesting the new information, ran his fingers through his always uncontrollable jetblack locks, entirely too shocked to say anything worthy of being said and much rather just sighed.

"Jesus Hermione."

She couldn't keep the satisfied, albeit weak smile off of her face.

* * *

Pansy hated when she was interrupted during office sex.

"Mr. Kingsley," Warlock Reid opened the door wide as he strode into the office, unfazed by the sight in front of him, meaning the couple shagging on the top of the great, oak desk of the Minister with the shiny name plate knocked over on it.

Mr. Reid's controlled face always enraged Pansy in the way only the Goblins in Gringrotts could: she was practically in front of him, exposed and very sexy, grunting and panting in a way that it should have caused any reasonable man to quiver with desire. Well, key word being: reasonable — because Pansy often found that wizards of the Warlock calibre were more often considered oddballs than not.

Kingsley continued pounding in her, violent and shameless, not bothered by the sudden intrusion and by now, Pansy didn't even care for covering herself. Reid had seen her private parts more times that she cared to count already, what was one more occasion, really?

Shouldn't he be at Hogwarts, anyway? She was sure she had seen his name listed on said paper yesterday morning when she was in the middle of snooping in the current governors' offices.

So Pansy let Kingsley finish without an ounce of regret while Reid looked her up-and down. It wasn't predatory, no not in the slightest; he looked like a scientist, with a serious expression and searching eyes following each tendon of her muscles under her skin as she rocked with Kingsley.

"My sweet, sweet Pansy," Kingsley murmured in her neck, kissing it with his big, luscious lips and thrusting in her cunt a few more times before he released his seeds in between her legs.

Pansy faked an orgasm, lest she wounded their dear Minister's ego, while secretly hating the sticky and repulsing feeling of having someone else's bodily fluids in her vagina. It was utterly disgusting, and to her, it was a symbol of belittlement. She was the equivalent of a doll, perfect for fucking, but not for thinking, not for entertaining conversations and definitely not deserving of pure love.

But she decided to be ignorant about it for now. Thinking about it always made it worse. Besides, Kingsley's fuck-time was usually not interrupted by pity things; if Reid was there, that had PROBLEM written over it. Yes, with capitals.

"Minister," the Warlock started when Kingsley buttoned himself up and it was only Pansy laying on the great, oak desk, uncovered and seemingly weakened from the intensity of her fake orgasm. What fools to believe those theatrics... "Potter is questioning the Bulgarian."

Kingsley abruptly froze, in the middle of fixing the cuffs of his robes, as he carefully formed the words, "I especially requested to be there when he's interrogating that woman."

Uhu, that certainly wasn't the PROBLEM (yes, with capitals) nor the reaction Pansy had had expected. She slightly narrowed her eyes as she continued observing the strange exchange between the two politicians, the tensing of their shoulders, the way they pursed their lips as they contemplated their options...

Interesting. Auror captain Potter usually could do no wrong within the walls of this Ministry, and now he got caught red-handed.

"I received the note minutes ago, Kingsley," Reid added with concern in his voice as he pulled a face. The Warlock was only able to show emotion if he were in the presence of people she could collect as pawns to play his own game with. Pansy, he couldn't even bother with – in his eyes, she was _that_ useless. And that was good that way – he didn't suspect her of anything. "Potter put the woman in the ice cabin for the night. For thirteen hours, Kingsley! My sources say she's still holding up, but quite delirious."

Well, Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the saviour of the bloody Wizarding World sure roughened up! If Pansy didn't need to hold up a façade, she would have whistled in amazement. The ice cabin, oh how she hated that cursed place!

It was perfect for criminals, after all.

As she had experienced the grace to be invited to Voldemort's inner circle, it naturally made their beloved Ministry very curious of her actions and how she remained alive in the mess that was the Final Battle. She only spent five hours in the damned cabin, whereas she knew, Theo and Draco pulled double her time.

Frostbite was an effective way to get information out of criminals even if the temperature inside was no lower than absolute zero. The Nordic ways might have been barbaric, but still, very fucking effective in getting the convicted singing their crimes in a right-out opera performance.

"Save it for later Reid," Kingsley cut him off, promptly forgetting about Pansy Parkinson dumbly smiling at his back while fumbling with putting her own clothes back on. She looked wobbly with her ridiculously long and slim legs, only having her high-heels on and with the fake smile of delirium firmly stuck on her lips. "We should go."

Pansy decided that she too, should go.

So she followed the two men literally three steps behind, not having received Kingsley's dismissal. Thankfully, their beloved Minister was too occupied by his nerves that he didn't even register her presence and with the interrogation rooms being in the same hallways as the Minister's office, it really just took three solid minutes to barge in the room with or without a war cry.

Not that Pansy would have screamed. She would have clapped along to the provided (and free) circus Kingsley was about to throw.

"What are you doing?" the Minister demanded with Warlock Reid in his heels and with ( a now clothed) Pansy Parkinson from the corner, silently observing the situation inside; literally drinking in all the little details until someone told her to go.

The tension that just seemed to explode in the room with their arrival, or how depressing the furnishing looked in here... The way an elegant but literally blue-faced woman was handcuffed to the table, her lips trembling as she still was obviously freezing. Or maybe, the most interesting little detail was the way how Potter's lips set in a firm line, shooting Kingsley an accusing look.

The Minsiter and Chosen One were firmly holding onto the others' eyes, narrowed and knowing full well how they abused the protocol, with Harry not obliging to his boss and with Kingsley right out abusing the power of a well-known auror.

"Questioning Avima Ginti, as being assigned to," Potter answered with a steady voice, not bothered by Kingsley's unexpected anger that was plainly obvious to anyone within the cosy interrogation room. The woman in front of him straightened herself up a bit more, showing ethereal defiance and conviction to her cause, refusing to be intimidated by the new people in the room. "I'm working," Potter stated brazenly, obviously irritated.

"I requested to be informed whenever you are interrogating Miss Ginti, Harry," Kingsley said in an admonishing tone, pinching his nose. "Will you give me a moment? Until then, Warlock Reid can surely keep watch over Miss Ginti."

Potter silently nodded and regally stood up, unaware the conceited smile blazing up on the blue-faced beauty's freezing lips. However, Pansy saw it and she knew it meant no good.

She went with Kingsley, not bothered by the curious glance Potter shot at her when recognizing her. It seemed very much like he had only just noticed Pansy Parkinson's hardly perceptible presence and he didn't fail to look at her with saucers for eyes, meanwhile she practically bathed in his attention.

"She's staying?" he questioned with brows knotted together in confusion, nodding towards her. If Reid couldn't hear what Kingsley was about to tell him, it certainly struck him as precarious that Pansy Parkinson could.

"Miss Parkinson is like my assistant," Kingsley lied with the ease of politicians, a lie Potter seemed to be a bit reluctant to accept without further explanation. "She remembers things I oftentimes forget. She's useful."

Oh well, when one made a living out of trading with said information, they do tend to precariously guard them and remember them. But no one needed to know that, obviously.

"If I'm allowed to speak in front of her," Potter started with eyes glinting dangerously in hardly restrained fury, hungry for reasons, "please, do tell me why you needed to be informed about the assassin's interrogation dates, Kingsley. I am the captain of the aurors for two years now, one would think I am allowed to do my work accordingly, don't you think?"

Well, not exactly a joyous starter, Pansy noted to herself while her coal eyes carefully roamed over the auror, trying to understand what his goals were with right out going against the Minsiter's orders. Others would have been fired on the spot, but it seemed, like most rules of the universe (e.g. morality and ordinariness) were of no power against Potter.

"There's a reason behind it, Harry," Kingsley confessed while both of them knowing he wasn't willing to share what the actual reason was just now. "You should know that well enough, with being familiar with Albus Dumbledore."

To that, Harry's eyes blazed with white-hot fury, this time, unrestrained, "What? To write this issue down as a little nothing in the media? That people should not concern themselves by Bulgarian assassins?" he asked sharply, his nerves are on the verge of tearing as he seemed to channel his insomnia to his frustration. "Kingsley you seem to forget that even though Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, he is still a citizen. I own Narcissa Malfoy enough already… It's a life-debt to her, and I'm not going to just dilly-dally and fu—,"

So that blue-faced bitch was the one who nearly assassinated dear, old Lucius?

"Do not confuse work with war, Harry," Kingsley interrupted rudely, not even willing to try and understand Harry's point of view over this very matter. "That's all I'm saying."

* * *

At exactly five past seven, Draco Malfoy apparated into Hermione Granger's house, expecting to see her prepared and all proper for their formerly arranged meeting.

She failed his expectations.

She was not improper so to say, but certainly wasn't looking proper by Draco's measures. She was a mess with pyjama pants on and an oversized male hoodie on the top, her hair up in a messy bun. What was, however, utterly interesting for Draco was the make-up that still coated her face, with a great emphasis to her cheekbones.

Before, he didn't take her someone to be so vain that she even wore make up at her own home when her head was buried deep into her research papers. Speaking about it, she looked even a bit slimmer or timider what with being surrounded by a massive amount of papers, parchments and books in the middle of her living room floor. It was an organized chaos; only the one creating could manage to coordinate with it.

"Where the fuck all these documents came from?" he blurted out on whim, enjoying the way how she flinched at hearing his low voice. He had surprised her, just like she did him. "I highly doubt that even the Minsitry has such detailed archives, Granger."

She pulled a face at that, but didn't turn back to reading "I'm going back to the beginning of my research. I was mistaken and the plant I was formerly working with turned out to be a disaster. Wanna help?" she proposed at the end, her eyes not really willing to keep the contact with his as she cautiously asked. She looked uncertain in a way that was unfamiliar and quite maddening to Draco.

So he shrugged, deciding on analysing that little detail of her reaction later on, "Whatever," and he sat down next to her, cross-legged and not caring how his trousers could potentially get damaged in the process. His knee bumped to her thigh but neither of them concerned themselves with it.

Draco simply pulled a vast column of documents opposite him, "Care to share what happened with the weed?"

She reached for the coffee table to whip out some a few funny, patterned boxes before answering, "Years ago, I started experimenting with aconitum lycoctonum. It seemed like the perfect substitution for the Wolfsbane potion," she said while she opened up the boxes and with it came a dizzyingly spicy scent. Under Draco's watchful eyes, she stabbed some food on two wooden sticks, "Wanna try the Chinese? I ordered a bit too much," she offered and he just shook his head, not knowing how else to react. He sure as heck didn't want to try that strange concoction.

"So aconitum?" he prompted, while she munched on her rice. "It's also the main ingredient of the Wolfsbane. Why did you think it would be an efficient substitute for the whole potion? It _is_ complex and there are several different ingredients for brewing it. Of course one damned weed would not be enough for success," he grimaced, taking up on his condescending tone.

She gulped her bite down before answering, "Well, now I know I was an idiot. But it seemed possible. It is cheap and easily accessible – or so I thought. I made some tests with Neville – only the white blooms are effective and it's even harder to brew a tea from. Wolfsbane is easier and it can be brewed with every-coloured blossoms, not just the whites."

"How did it fail?" he rudely cut her off, his curiosity easily overruling his good manners.

"It's a drug. I gave the elixir in high concentration to Christopher and his bodily functions nearly stopped," she confessed while she continued to fiddle with the wooden sticks, her nose practically buried in the funny, patterned box. "He wasn't able to lift himself up in wolf form, aconitum combined with the energy and calories the transformation burned away in his system made for a terrible outcome. There were drawbacks," she said in the end, her voice trembling.

Okay, that was something definitely not usual from Granger. She looked like as if she was on the verge of crying, a trembling and shocked mess.

"Hmm, it's not exactly surprising if you think about it. Wolfsbane is effectively a poison to weaken the wolf within people. Aconitum is not the main ingredient for nothing," he mused in understanding, trying to unconsciously deter her from her guilt. He didn't know why he did it — it just seemed to be the right thing to do. Then he promptly blurted out those illicit, damaging words: "So you fucked up your lab rat."

He winced at himself.

Hermione, flinching when hearing him say it, took a big breath before properly answering, "Yes. Basically, yes." She closed her eyes, obviously regretting her actions that led to the catastrophe.

"And now, driven by guilt, you are ready to dig deeper in this research," he stated, but (this time) not because of his cruelty — he was just generally curious how she would react. This side of Hermione Granger was unknown for him and he felt he needed to figure her out to understand _everything_.

She tutted at that while being undoubtedly irritated by his skills in reading her like she was one of her beloved books, wide open and without secrets.

"I need to go back to the beginning," she ended up saying while taking another bite of rice and reached behind her, passing him a document. "What do you know of Lycaon's legend, Greek mythology?"

"He was punished by Zeus. Killed his son or something, yes?"

"Zeus turned him into a carnal being — a werewolf so to say, but some legends say, he was more like a shape-shifter and wolves are the animals that are as cruel as he was. Hyginus wrote the story in _Fabulae_ and he was the one that used the word lycanthrope. It originates from Lycaon's name," she explained in detail, her eyes lit up with excitement. It was something that came easily for her to do — she enjoyed every step of learning and sharing information was clearly one of that.

"Are you saying that werewolves are not mythical creatures, but cursed people?" Draco asked when she shut up, baffled and not quite ready to believe it. It seemed to be the plot twist for their unravelled research history.

"Well, if you think about it, you cannot turn people to merepeople, Veela or centaurs," Hermione interjected. "But with a bite you can turn them into werewolves and vampires. Isn't it strange? These gene modifications – because vampirism and wolfism are that – are infectious and are basically more like a disease than an actual curse. But I'm still not sure and there are literally no sources confirming or declining anything — people like Newt just accepted werewolves as mythical creatures and that's that. However—,"

"So you mean to tell me there is an option for this to be a mere… disease?" he asked, unbelieving and very much amazed by her deducting skills. No wonder she was the Brightest Witch of her Age – not that he would confess it out loud in her presence.

"You thought I started this research on a whim?" she looked triumphant at that, huffing and questioning him sharply and with a brow intimidatingly pulled up. Much like how he used to do so in Hogwarts' corridors. "I looked into it and hunted down books that suggest different possibilities. Wolfism is said to be a mix of diseases: pophytia, hypertrichosis that came from the rabies. It would be quite a mix to tell the truth, but it is certainly an expla—,"

"Would you please speak in English?" he lifted a bleached brow up in question, hardly conscious of his actions. His brain was already in a frenzy, processing all the ways this research of theirs could turn out. Coming with the exact number seemed to be right out impossible.

"Oh, sorry," she muttered, uncomfortably fidgeting with the wooden sticks in her hand. "One is for the wolves heightened senses, one is for excessive hair growth and the last is like… not being control of your action. Cannibalism, wildness, things like that come with it," she clarified the words for him, that must have been the subjects of his question. No wonder that the king of purebloods hadn't an inkling about those medical expressions, really.

He tilted his head to the side, carefully chewing through her words and ideas, trying to comprehend everything she had just said. Then, after three painfully long minutes, "You know it sounds awfully logical," he blurted out in the end. "Why didn't you just combine the potions and injections against it?"

"Well, I haven't had the time," she confessed with a frown. "Mostly. But there is magic involved on the long run, I'm sure. Otherwise, I'm certain werewolves wouldn't be able to live lives as long as wizards. Rabies kill fast. Then real question is where werewolfism actually came from," she digressed, biting the end of the chopsticks, her pristine teeth showing with the motion.

"Dark magic?" Malfoy offered offhandedly, trying hard not let his eyes linger on her unblemished face. "If it is written here," and with his index finger he pointed at a paragraph on the document Hermione had in her lap. Neither seemed to notice how _close_ they were sitting to each other. "That Lycaon was _cursed_ , it couldn't have been the Greek gods. Gods do not curse, even if it was Zeus."

"Yes, you are probably right," she let him have that one, little victory. "Lycanthropy and vampirism are connected and they are popping up all over in Europe, simultaneously. But anyway I'm just surprised we have nothing from Ancient Egypt, if we have Greek and Roman texts about them."

"What about Norway?" he asked knowing full well that nearly one tenth of the wizarding community was mythical creatures in the North. But really, how would you expect to survive so much dastardly cold when you were a mere human being?

"They connect them to Odin, the god of war," she blurted out without missing a heartbeat. "And it is told that the Belarusian Prince in the eleventh century was a wolf. Also, in Hungary, for example, they believed that wolfism and vampirism could be transmitted by genetics. They even thought that their kings were of magical blood at some point. But you know Teddy! Remus Lupin was a Beta, so not one of the weaklings and still, Teddy is perfectly normal little boy, though a menace indeed," she muttered with a half-hearted snort of amusement. She didn't even realize she was rambling, or that she had deterred herself of their topic; literally, that fond of Teddy she truly was.

"Never heard of that before," Draco said in the end, his eyes looking over Hermione's shoulders to let his thoughts wander and not get distracted. "I only know about that German legend, Peter Stumpp's trials and the French loup-garou. Those were violent cases – even the muggles documented it."

"Yes, well, in the end they got tangled with witchery in the panic. No way they could have evaded the trials." That time, people really were idiotic. If they had never confessed their sins no one would have been the wiser. _History_ , hah. "Though it's interesting that in Turkey they respected the wolves."

Draco pulled up a white-washed brow at that, "Care to elaborate?"

Hermione excitedly nodded with her bun bouncing up and down on the top of her head, eager to finally share something positive about of her own people. "Werewolves were their shamans, they could connect to the nature in a spiritual level, or so they believed. Normal people relied on us in a manner that was exceptional throughout the centuries. Wolves are quite good with understanding the way through lands — they were like human compasses and maps put together and led by their instincts," she added as an explanation when seeing his awestruck expression.

She smugly smiled down at her Chinese food not noticing the way, how Draco's eyes glinted at her in a more than interested, suspicious way. He looked ready to grab her chopsticks and pick through her brain with them – but Hermione was none the wiser.

 _She didn't notice her slip up._

"Right," he said, coughing awkwardly and pulling a hand in front of his smile, equally as smug as hers; the ring on his finger glinting at the sunshine.

Draco didn't want to think about the little clue she left for him to collect (even if it was unintentional) and decided to go over her wording later on. "So what are the methods to get rid of the… diseases?"

"Depredation," she said with taking one more bite of her Chinese food. "The calories lost would eventually kill the wolf within the person, but it _is_ dangerous. The wolf in hunger could start eating their host from the inside out. The Greeks found it inhuman to apply in practice besides a few test subjects. I also tried to use silver on Christopher, but it just made him go into a fit."

"Dark arts?" Draco prompted, expecting a long hours worth of excuses and lectures why they could not even look into that branch of magic, not to mention, put it to use.

"Not exactly a skilled one at that," she looked at him funnily, as if expecting a confession from him, that he, in fact, was a professional in those ancient magical tricks. "I also thought about surgically removing a gene, but I would need muggle technology and a hella lot of knowledge for something as complex as that would be. And involving muggles is out of the question."

This time, he didn't even try with figuring out what the heck she meant by that. "What about the curses? You were a fine dueller and could handle malicious curses well enough. Haven't you experienced with it?"

"You suggest getting a curse-breaker?" she asked, slightly disappointed. He had a feeling she had hoped for something else. That feeling, unfortunately stuck with him.

"There are other people for the job and other perspectives to view it," he diplomatically stated, wriggling in his position. He elegantly stretched his legs out to get rid of the numbness building up within his limbs

"Not legal people, I assume," Hermione eagerly took the opportunity for a light jab and a bit of grimace when she saw it.

"Do not frown that much, Granger or you'll get wrinkles before your time," he admonished with a heavy sigh as he leaned back on his arms, "But yes, you assumed right," and with that, he let a conceited grin slip on his lips.

He was _finally_ getting closer to figuring her out.


End file.
